Masterpiece Theatre
by Morwen Maranwe
Summary: The future of medicine is here: a pill that repurposes the male body, making it possible for a man to become pregnant. Sherlock is intrigued by it for inexplicable, illogical reasons. It is an adventure waiting to be taken, the greatest possible experiment for him-and it calls to him incessantly. And, of course, Sherlock has never been able to resist an addiction. Warnings inside.
1. Masterpiece Theatre I

Disclaimer: Full author's note at the end of the chapter, where I go into a little bit of detail about the story. I do not own Sherlock (in any form, BBC version or literary classic) and all pregnancy information is from .com and .com. Some of the other medical information I got off of .com. I also do not own the songs from the album Masterpiece Theatre by the band Marianas Trench (see full A/N at end of chapter for more details). And if a line from the tv series 'Friends' has seeped in here and there, I do not own those, either. I am only going to post this disclaimer once, unless something else comes up that I feel I need to state. Otherwise, just assume that these same words go for each chapter.

Notes and warnings: This story contains slash, more than a few swear words, and mpreg! It is set post-Reichenbach, though I do not really state a definite time, or allude to what happened to bring Sherlock and John back together. I will let you fill in that blank space with your favorite post-Reichenbach fic, as you see fit. This story also starts off with an established JohnxSherlock relationship—again, you can fill that hole however you like as well. Take your pick of any number of great fics that pertain to those two things. Thanks to my ultra, uber-amazing betas Haelia and Jenamy! X's and O's to both of you!

X.X.X

The nursing staff that worked behind the front counter were unusually quiet, not speaking to one another. Even though Sherlock didn't know these people, he could see the flicker of their eyes to one another that suggested a certain level of stress that settled all around each one of them, and he knew that the silence in this work environment was not normal. The few people who were desperate enough in their illnesses to risk the visit to this particular doctor's office sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs in frightened silence, and Sherlock's sharp eyes took a quick scan of the few of them.

An older woman, who had a very bad cough. When she leaned forward in her chair, Sherlock saw her wince at a soreness in her diaphragm, and he knew that she had probably waited a few days before venturing out to the clinic, hoping that he protest mobs would dissipate soon.

A younger woman, hair lanky and unkempt. Shaking fingers picked nervously at the threadbare seams of her shirt and she wasn't wearing a jacket, odd for the slight chill that sat in the air this morning. _Addict_, Sherlock thought, letting his gaze rove over her, uninterested. She was probably homeless and had donned her cleanest clothing for this 'doctor's visit', leaving her coat elsewhere because it was too filthy for her to wear without raising suspicions.

And another woman with a small child, who sat unmoving as he leaned against his mother. She had her arm wrapped around him, hugging him tightly, and her eyes never left the large windows and the crowd that could be seen through it.

All women. No man would risk being caught in one of these clinics today. Or tomorrow, even.

The nervousness in the small waiting room was palpable—even the junkie's eyes darted to the windows every now and then, and Sherlock could imagine that she was trying to talk herself in to staying in her seat, for the pain killers.

He couldn't blame them for being uneasy. If he were a lesser person, he would probably be as well.

Actually, if he were a lesser person, he most likely would not be here.

The mob outside was growing bigger and bigger as the minutes ticked away. A few police officers were patrolling the perimeter—Sherlock could see them through the large glass windows of the office building—but there were far too many people for the handful of cops. If the mob decided to get violent, there would be no stopping them. Sherlock understood the fact that Scotland Yard was dividing all of their agents between the other clinics in London, but still, it made him slightly mad: there were innocent civilians in the doctor's office that had nothing to do with the reason the mob was outside.

"Mr. Holmes?" a nervous voice called out, and Sherlock looked up to see an anxious-looking, mousy nurse standing before him. "The doctor will see you now."

He nodded silently and stood, following her with one last look of trepidation behind him, at the growing crowd that seemed to be pushing itself closer to the windows.

In the back of the office, the low, angry grumble of the mob was silenced by walls and doors, and Sherlock was led down the small corridor towards one of the exam rooms. To his surprise, when the nurse opened the door, the doctor was already waiting for him, and the nurse quietly left them to it, not bothering to stay to do the mundane, necessary tasks of taking his vitals and preparing all the information for the doctor's viewing.

That was interesting. He never knew a doctor to get his hands dirty with those trivial tasks—the preliminary exam was always done by the Physician Assistant or a nurse. Family practitioners were only interested in the root of the problem.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Greenwhich greeted him once the nurse had closed the door behind her, leaving the two men alone in the small exam room.

The doctor was an older gentleman who had a nice disposition and a caring heart, and he smiled congenially when he greeted Sherlock as soon as the tall brunette walked into the room. The physician motioned for Sherlock to take a seat at the exam table in the middle of the room, but the consulting detective declined, continuing to stand. If the aging doctor was put off by Sherlock's apparent rudeness, he did not show it. "I have to say, I was surprised to have received a call from you regarding this situation," he said to the man, amicably enough.

Standing across the room from him, Sherlock could see that Dr. Greenwhich looked extremely tired, so different from the last time the consulting detective had seen him, only a few months ago, embracing his teenage daughter as Sherlock brought them back together after the kidnapping. Now, he had the lines around his eyes, mouth and forehead that he had worn the entire time his daughter had been missing.

Sherlock could understand why.

"Why is the nurse not going to check me over first?" he asked, not bothering with all of the pleasantries of polite conversation that John had tried to instill in him over the past few years. That's not why he was here, after all.

"Ah, well," a small smile played at the corners of Dr. Greenwhich's lips. "As you can see, I'm not near as busy as I would be on a normal day and…I would like to take the lead on these particular visits by clients. No need to drag all my staff down with me if things are to turn sour. I already feel that I've asked too much of them as it is, agreeing to be one of the few clinics that…well, can't back out now, can I?"

Sherlock said nothing, because the simple answer was that, yes, of course Dr. Greenwhich could back out. But Sherlock knew he wouldn't. The doctor was trying to prove a point—for what, Sherlock had not yet deduced—and they both knew that the older gentleman would not turn Sherlock away now.

"I know you're not here for advice or lectures on it," the doctor continued, staring at Sherlock intensely. "I trust you've done all the necessary research for yourself and come to your decision on your own?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. Like he would be here to discuss the _options_ and the _consequences_! But he knew that the doctor was weary and wary, and, despite everything going on in the world outside this building, he was being as accommodating to Sherlock as he could be at the moment.

"Right then. Do we need to discuss anything at all? The side-effects, the procedure, the…results?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood before the physician, because, contrary to what John or Lestrade said, he _did_ get tired of proving to everyone that he knew everything. "I understand that it is a series of pills to be taken for several days and that the…transformation…will not be pleasant," he rambled off, giving the doctor a smirk that slowly faded. "I assume it is nothing that would end up in a trip to the A&E?"

Dr. Greenwhich shook his head and made a back and forth motion with both of his hands. "No, no. It should be uncomfortable—of course—but nothing too serious," he answered reassuringly.

"Good." The less people who knew about this right now, the better. And John would get immediately suspicious. Of course John would. "And after the…change, ovulation will begin as soon as my body has a chance to get used to everything?"

Nodding his head the doctor said, "Yes, I'd give it sometime between 1 and 3 months. There has not been any recordings that it should take more than that." The old physician turned towards the cabinets in the exam room and began shuffling through drawers and cupboards, pulling a few boxes and some small plastic bags out. "Along with the round of Synathida pills, a male-specific ovulation test comes as part and parcel. It works much the same as a female ovulation kit—you will dip the strip into your urine and the result will be shown. It's simple enough to do yourself at home beginning the week after you finish your round of Synathida." He turned back to Sherlock, handing the tall, dark haired man a few of the bags that he had shoved the pills and ovulation kits into.

"You understand that this procedure can only end in a Caesarian section?" Dr. Greenwhich asked, voice stern. "Of sorts," he explained a bit more. "The pill will reform your appendix, making it hospitable for fertilization. You will have to be operated on and your appendix will be removed once you are at the end of your term."

Sherlock didn't say anything, simply grasping the little bags that Dr. Greenwhich gave to him silently.

Dr. Greenwhich kept his dull brown eyes on Sherlock, sharp and shining behind his wire-framed glasses, mouth set in a stern line. "You will not be able to do this again," he continued lowly.

"I understand completely."

The doctor nodded his head once, with finality, and turned to open the door to the exam room for Sherlock to exit, extending his other out to shake the detective's hand.

"Good luck with this, Mr. Holmes," he said as Sherlock reluctantly reached out to grasp his hand and shake it. "You are a brave man, knowing what you want so decisively." Sherlock gave the doctor's hand a quick shake and let it go as soon as he could, staring at the older gentleman before him as he continued to speak to Sherlock.

"The world is changing, and you have to understand that. This will not be easy. On anyone."

Sherlock nodded his head silently, not sure what else to say in the situation, uncommon for him. But he didn't dwell on that at the moment—he wanted nothing more than to get out of the doctor's office and back to Baker Street before John came home from the surgery. He swept past Dr. Greenwhich, giving the older man a quick nod in farewell, but the man reached out and took hold of Sherlock's arm, his grip tight, indicating a fear that the doctor couldn't hide any longer.

"For God's sake, go out the back door," Dr. Greenwhich said, turning Sherlock around and pushing him towards the other end of the corridor. "They will know what you were here for the instant you step outside. They've kept mostly to themselves these past few days, but why push our luck, wouldn't you agree?"

Xxx

Blast the wretched doctor. The pain was almost unbearable. 'Uncomfortable' his arse! His insides were spasming and roiling around each other. It was unsettling. It was painful and scary and gut wrenching. Literally.

He tried to breathe through the pain, and his hands came up of their own accord to cup his belly. He was certain that he felt slight movements beneath the skin of his fingers and abdomen—his stomach and liver being pushed unceremoniously out of the way and his intestines inching their way higher in their cavity.

He knew his organs weren't actually moving enough for him to feel them that vividly, but his mind, as always, was simply trying to comprehend the situation he had put himself in.

He was at the end of his cycle of pills, and for the past 2 days he could do nothing but lie in bed, in too much pain to even jump at the call from Lestrade about a case.

_Figure it out yourself, you moron. I'm too busy dying._

John, of course, had worried the instant Sherlock had said that he was too unwell to take the case. Sherlock had to try to convince him that it was only a small flu bug, nothing to get worked up over, but John seemed reluctant to buy his story.

He reached out quickly for the trash bin that had been by his bedside for the past 2 days and pulled it towards him. He was surprised there was anything to throw up at all, excluding organs in his body that were being unceremoniously pushed aside and deemed as unimportant by those damn little pills. In fact, that may have been a kidney he had just thrown up. He was fairly certain it was.

Outside of his bedroom door he heard John knock, and the doctor's soft voice called out to him. "Sherlock? All right in there? I brought some dinner, if you're hungry."

Sherlock groaned and rolled over in the bed, wrapping the sheet around himself as a spasm of shivers took over his body.

"Sherlock?"

He heard the door creak open slightly, and the only thing he wanted more than to keep throwing up at the moment was to deal with John fussing over him.

"Go away, John!" he told his pillow moodily.

"Maybe we should take you to the A& E. See what's wrong…." John's voice was closer now, almost right by the bed. In the dim light that was shining from the lamp on his bedside table he saw the shadow of John reaching out a hand towards him.

"No!" He drew away from the hand that was coming for his forehead, sinking lower into the sheets. If John felt his fever, he would want to rush Sherlock straight to the hospital. That could not be allowed to happen. "Just leave me the bloody hell alone!"

His voice was venomous and from a gap in the sheets he saw John draw back his hand, stung by Sherlock's tone. "All right," the blonde man said softly, at a loss as to what to do with Sherlock. "Just…call me if you need anything."

John walked out of the room as quietly as he had come, shutting the door softly behind him and leaving the brunette man alone in his misery. Sherlock simply rolled over in bed and waited impatiently for the worst to pass.

Xxx

Thankfully, a few days later Sherlock found his reprieve. The pain in his abdomen finally began to subside until it was nothing more than a dull ache, constant and nagging—especially when he over-exerted himself—but nothing that was intolerable. As he began to feel the energy to get out of bed return, he knew his body was gearing up for the next step in the process: ovulation.

The ovulation test was not unlike any number of experiments he had done in the past. And, in some, he had often used his own fluids, so he was not squeamish about handling his urine. When John left for the surgery in the mornings, Sherlock would bring out the strips from the hiding spot he kept them in—wrapped in a plastic bag and put inside the hole on the underside of the skull in the living room—and he dipped the strips methodically, waiting patiently for results he knew would appear in moments and recording his data meticulously. He did not ovulate for the first week after his round of Synathida, nor the week after, even. But he did not worry—every scientist knows that patience always leads to expected results, and this was no different.

When, finally, in the third week, his ovulation strip showed him a positive reading, he recorded the data with a grin on his face. He was finally able to move on to the next step of the experiment—the part he knew he would enjoy greatly.

He was going to make John Watson get him good and pregnant.

Xxx

They had been having a physical relationship now for a few years—the inevitable conclusion to their partnership, he had told John—and he knew that the fertilization process would by far be the easiest step in the experiment.

He was not disappointed.

It was not terribly hard to get John to have sex with him repeatedly over the course of his ovulation cycle. The blonde man had always been a sexual creature, as Sherlock had gathered not long after John had first moved in with him, and although he was a few years older now than when they had first met, John proved to be a voracious man who had a healthy sexual appetite.

Especially when it came to Sherlock.

All the brunette man had to do was make a kiss linger for a second too long, run a hand down the blonde's thigh, press their bodies together just right in a hug, and John was lost. Sherlock knew this, and took advantage of every trick he had up his sleeve over the course of his ovulation cycle.

After a few days of constant, nonstop, almost teenage-like sex, John did seem to get a little suspicious. Whenever Sherlock allowed him up for air, the blonde man seemed to recall that they hadn't shagged so tirelessly in years—since they had first gotten together and had not been able to keep their hands off of one another—but before he could dwell any more on it, Sherlock would pull him back down into their bed, intent on making John forget how to even formulate a sentence.

It seemed to work for the most part, and any time that they were not spending shagging, John was too busy trying to catch his breath or recover the use of his limbs to even think about why Sherlock was fucking him so relentlessly.

On a few occasions, Sherlock was even able to forget that he was supposed to be shagging John in the name of science. During those times, the consulting detective was more than happy to have another go for the second time that day, this time just for himself.

John, for the most part, seemed more than happy—and willing—to give Sherlock everything that he could. But, of course, every man, no matter how horny, eventually comes to a point where they just have no energy left. When John finally reached this point, he could do nothing more than lie on his back in their bed, spread eagle and naked as the day he was born, trying to catch his breath as perspiration dried on his skin. His short, dirty blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, and his pupils were so dilated that they seemed to mesh with the dark blue of his irises, making it almost impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Sherlock, lying next to him, was already snaking a hand out once again, wrapping long pale fingers around John's flaccid cock.

The man beside him twitched uncomfortably at the over-stimulation and groaned.

"Sherlock, wait!" he complained, trying to curl into himself and push Sherlock's incessant hand away futilely. "I'm not as young as I used to be—give me a minute!"

From the other side of the bed, Sherlock only made a noise of discontent in the back of his throat as John tried to cover himself up with their blanket, trying to put an end to Sherlock's exercises.

"You're sucking the life right out of me. Literally!" John exclaimed, turning his face away as Sherlock moved to kiss him. "I need a drink of water or, better yet, a cup of tea. Anything to get some fluids back into me."

"I can give you some fluids, John," Sherlock said cheekily, an evil smirk growing on his full lips. "If that's what you want."

John could do nothing but groan in frustration and weariness, and wait for Sherlock to attack once more.

Xxx

Exactly a fortnight after the last day of his and John's two week long 'sex marathon'—as the blonde man so lovingly called it—Sherlock was down at Dr. Greenwhich's office yet again, having his blood drawn to test for conception.

Dr. Greenwhich was once again attending him, true to his word about wanting to be the only doctor seeing his few Synathida patients. Sherlock, for his part, sat on the uncomfortable little bed in the bleak exam room, looking much too tall for the standard issue table and holding his arm out tiredly as the doctor continued to draw what seemed like a tremendous amount of blood from him.

"How was the reconstruction?" Dr. Greenwhich asked companionably into the still silence of the small room.

"Uncomfortable. I've only just recovered from the spasms and the pain that came along with it."

"Well, didn't think it was going to be a walk in the park, did you?" the doctor asked with a small smirk on his thin lips.

Sherlock decided that was one of those questions John had told him about in the past—hypothetical and not requiring a response.

"It's completely normal, so I hear," the doctor continued, when it was obvious that Sherlock was not going to respond to him. "The pain you felt after the round of Synathida was your appendix restructuring itself to prepare for ovulation and be able to accommodate a fetus once implantation has occurred."

Sherlock hummed his interest. He knew all of this information, but he guessed that the doctor just didn't like uncomfortable silences, so he let the man continue to speak.

"After we test your blood, we will be able to tell if implantation has occurred. Don't be too upset if it hasn't—you will continue to ovulate monthly, until you become pregnant. So there will be plenty more chances for you."

"And if implantation has already occurred?" Sherlock asked, somewhat haughtily. He had no _proof_ that his or John's sperm was superior to anyone else's but it only made sense to Sherlock that this was as inevitably enhanced as everything else pertaining to the duo.

If Dr. Greenwhich noticed the condescension, he let it pass. "Well, if you've been implanted by your partner's sperm, the ball of cells that is the beginning stages of the fetus—called a blastocyst during these early weeks—will take up residence in your appendix, which will be acting—for all intents and purposes—in place of a uterus."

He seemed to be pleased with the amount of blood that he had taken from Sherlock, and he began to remove the butterfly needle and tubing attached to the man's arm as he continued to speak. "The part of the blastocyst that will develop into the placenta will start producing the pregnancy hormone hCG, human chorionic gonadotropin, which will trigger production of estrogen and progesterone in your body. In the early stages of male pregnancy these hormones, which will contribute to lots of other things throughout your pregnancy, will line your appendix with the necessary tissue that it needs to be sure the blastocyst implants into the walls of the appendix. The hormones will also stimulate placental growth. "

He placed a cotton ball into the crook of Sherlock's arm and gestured for the brunette man to hold it there. Sherlock pressed down hard, trying not to remember the feel of other needles being drawn out of his veins and the rush that always followed afterward. Instead, he focused on what the doctor was saying.

"Amniotic fluid will begin to collect around the blastocyst in the cavity that will become the amniotic sac. This fluid is meant to cushion the baby in the weeks and months ahead. For the first few weeks, the blastocyst will be receiving oxygen and nutrients—and discarding waste products—through a primitive circulation system made up of microscopic tunnels that connect the developing baby to the blood vessels in the wall of your appendix. The placenta won't be developed enough to take over this task until the next few weeks. This early on, the primitive placenta is made up of two layers," he was talking with his hands now, holding phantom organs in between his fingers and moving them up, down and around, as if he could show Sherlock just exactly what was happening in his body at the moment. "Its cells are tunneling into the lining of your appendix, creating spaces for your blood to flow so that the developing placenta will be able to provide nutrients and oxygen to your growing baby when it starts to function at the end of the fourth week of your pregnancy. If you are pregnant now, the amniotic sac should be growing in the next few days. This sac will house your baby. Also to come soon will be the amniotic fluid, which will cushion her as she grows, and the yolk sac, which will produce your baby's red blood cells and help deliver nutrients to her until the placenta has developed and is ready to take over this duty."

Finished with his explanation, Dr. Greenwhich sat back in his seat as Sherlock stared at him silently, being sure he had taken in all of the doctor's information.

_HCG will produce estrogen and progesterone. Blastocyst will implant into walls of appendix. Next comes the amniotic fluid and sac, then the placenta. Right._

"Any questions?" the doctor asked, looking as though he were expecting plenty.

"No."

He would never get used to the look of uncertainty that people gave him when he was able to comprehend something that they didn't think he should. But, thankfully, Dr. Greenwhich was already accustomed to the inner workings of Sherlock's mind and he did not comment on the matter any further.

"We will call you as soon as we get the test results back, but, if you are pregnant, you may develop more symptoms before you even hear back from us. Your…breasts…" he said, looking sheepish and slightly uncomfortable for the first time since he had seen Sherlock, "male as they may be, will become tingly, sore, and feel a little swollen, as your male body struggles with the fact that you do not have the necessary mammary glands that the hormones are meant to stimulate, thanks to the progesterone and estrogen coursing through your system. Also, another symptom that may come up is frequent urination. The pregnancy hormone hCG will increase the blood flow to your pelvic area and your kidneys, making them more efficient during pregnancy, since you will be urinating for two." He stood, signaling the end of Sherlock's appointment, and the tall brunette moved to do the same, hitting his head on the overhanging light fixture above the exam bed with a hollow-sounding _thunk_ and a cringe.

"You may also begin to feel some bloating," the doctor continued, walking to the door and holding it open for Sherlock. "Progesterone will also be responsible for that. It will start to slow down your digestion to allow more nutrients to enter the bloodstream and reach your baby. There may also be some, ah…extreme mood swings, which will once again be caused by the hormones that your body will be producing. Other than that, you should feel just peachy," the old man finished with a smile.

Sherlock did not return the sentiment.

"Don't worry about a thing, my boy," Dr. Greenwhich told him, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder as the brunette man passed him to exit the room and leave. "I'm sure everything will turn out just as intended."

Xxx

The week following his doctor's appointment, Sherlock was, indeed, on edge and rather jumpy, but he couldn't be sure if it was pregnancy related, or if he was just feeling the strain of waiting for the doctor's phone call. Each time his cell phone went off, he would start violently and scramble for the small electronic device, rushing out of the room if John were in it. Not very discreet, he knew, but he couldn't help it: he felt as though he were walking a tight wire, waiting for the one piece of information that could tell him whether or not he could proceed with the next part of the experiment, or if he had to go back to square one.

Waiting for the test results had always been one of his favorite parts of experiments. The thrill of not knowing, the frustration of being so close to the end, the anticipation of what was coming next…he had always imagined that was what children felt on the eve of Christmas or their birthdays, when they knew presents were close at hand.

The call came, finally, at the end of the week, when John was still at the surgery and Sherlock was impatiently digging through their pile of cases, looking for a good one that would take his mind off of the fact that his phone had not rung all damn day—

The sharp, loud tone of his ringer split the still air of the room and Sherlock could do nothing for a few seconds but stare at it, his heart hammering in his chest.

When he reached out to answer it, he heard Dr. Greenwhich's voice on the other line.

"May I please speak with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"This is he."

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes. It's Dr. Greenwhich at the family planning clinic. I thought you would be interested to know that your results have just come back."

"Yes?"

"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock could hear the doctor's smile even through the crackling of the poor reception. "You are one of the first confirmed successes of the public release of the Synathida pill. Your blood test confirms that you are, indeed, pregnant. We would like to have you come in for a prenatal checkup in a week, to do all the routine tests."

For a second, Sherlock could not speak. There was a tightness in his throat and a queasiness in his stomach that fluttered back and forth. When he finally managed to open his mouth, the only thing that came out was a croaked, "How far along am I?"

"Well, we won't be able to tell for certain until we can do a sonogram and take some measurements, but from the information you gave regarding your sexual activity at your last prenatal exam, it seems…." Sherlock heard the soft rustle of papers on the other end of the line as Dr. Greenwhich went back through his file. "About 5 weeks, judging by the date you gave us for your last day of ovulation."

Xxx

After he hung up with Dr. Greenwhich, he went straight to John's laptop, opening it up and breaking through the new security measures John had put up in a feeble attempt to keep Sherlock out without a second thought.

Straight to the internet and onto the first pregnancy website he could find.

5 weeks, 5 weeks, 5 weeks….

He navigated the website to the correct page and read the information on it, drinking it all in.

And then a new website and a new page.

And another and another.

Well, then.

At 5 weeks, the embryo's heart and brain, along with all its other organs, were developing. That simple fact was enough to stop Sherlock in his tracks. For the first time, he began to think of the embryo not just as some radical experiment he was constructing, but as an actual living thing inside of him.

It had a heart. It was alive.

And a part of him—a silly, frivolous part—began to wonder about all those organs developing inside of him. Would the heart growing in the embryo turn out to be a good, brave, caring heart, like John's? And the brain…could it possibly be developing a brain like his own, vast and unquenchable? For the first time since he had decided to go through with this experiment, he began to wonder at the simple fact that there was a very real possibility that the fetus could have the best parts of him and John. John's eyes and his cheekbones. John's feet and his nose.

He put a hand to his stomach, unnerved.

This was unexpected.

He had always been able to severe any emotional ties that cropped up during an experiment. That course of action had always been for the best. How could he calculate the data correctly if things like his _feelings_ got in the way of what he was supposed to be analyzing?

But yet…he knew without a doubt, between one second and the next, that he was not going to be able to do that with this experiment now.

He had become emotionally involved, in the span of a breath.

Interesting. He would have to write down this new development as soon as possible.

Xxx

As the day of his first prenatal checkup drew closer, Sherlock was interested to find that he had a particular bloating feeling in his abdomen, along with some mild to severe cramping. He knew that the hCG was causing an increase of blood flow to his pelvic area, and that his kidneys were becoming more efficient at ridding his body of all of the waste that it didn't want to keep around for any length of time. Added to that the fact that his growing appendix was beginning to push down on the surrounding organs, especially the bladder, to accommodate its growing size and he was running to the bathroom more often than he had ever gone before in his life. He tried to anticipate his bladder's frequent need to relieve itself, and he would use the facilities right before he and John left Baker St to go to a case that Lestrade called them about, but, depending on the length of time they spent at the crime scene or at the morgue following the body, he would inevitably have to go again.

When it happened the first time, John gave the uncharacteristic behavior a frown, but otherwise ignored it. When it happened consecutively at the next three crime scenes they were called into, the blonde doctor couldn't seem to help asking if Sherlock was okay.

The consulting detective tried brushing him off in the beginning, but when John would not let up about it Sherlock had ended up snapping harshly at him, something he had not intended.

Mood swings, indeed. Yet another thing he would have to be sure to document in his notes.

Unfortunately, the symptoms didn't stop at just a frequent need to relieve himself and a few harsh words to John or the other police officers who inevitably annoyed him during a crime scene investigation, no. There was now an un-ignorable swelling in his hands and feet, and an incessant cramping on his right side that was almost as unbearable as the reconstruction process of the Synathida pills.

And 2 weeks after the call that confirmed his conception, there came the morning sickness. And the evening sickness, and the middle-of-the-bloody-night sickness. He could not eat, could not even so much as _smell_ food, without his stomach churning unpleasantly and urging him to the bathroom. It happened so frequently that Sherlock could not even try to hide it from John. A few times when John had been in the bathroom, Sherlock had not been able to make it to a trash can and had ended up using the shower or toilet while John was occupying the washroom, puking into whichever facility the blonde doctor was not using at the moment.

At night, whenever they went to sleep, John had gotten into the habit of moving to the farthest corner of the bed, as far away from Sherlock as he could get, because the brunette man tended to jump out of bed and rush out to the bathroom with no regard for anyone sleeping close to him.

It was enough for Sherlock to wish that he had never gone through with the blasted idea in the first place.

Almost.

Xxx

"We'll start with a general physical, and then move on to the rectal exam to be sure everything is okay in that end."

Dr. Greenwhich chuckled crudely at his own pun, but he was the only one.

For the third time in the span of 6 weeks, Sherlock found himself in the doctor's office yet again. He was beginning to hate the small, dull exam rooms and the even duller nursing staff that he had to put up with during his visits.

"It is difficult to do prenatal examinations on male patients because they do not have a birth canal that we can examine to be sure everything in the embryo's temporary home is okay." The head physician was attending him yet again, and Sherlock found that he was somewhat grateful for that. He didn't think his already-frayed nerves could stand anyone else poking about him. "For now, we can only see what the camera brings up from the rectal exam, and what we can find in the general physical and blood samples we will take again."

"More blood?" He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice, but he was too tired to try very hard. And, frankly, he didn't really give a damn at this point, anymore.

Dr. Greenwhich only chuckled softly again. "We have to determine your blood type, Rh factor, and see if you are iron-deficient." He gently pushed Sherlock to lie back on the rickety, still-too-small exam bed and the brunette man went down unwillingly. "We will also test it for sexually transmitted disease—don't worry, its standard procedure—and immunity to Rubella. We will look for other ethnic-specific genetic diseases, as well. And we will need to take a urine sample to test your glucose, protein, red and white blood cells, and bacteria levels."

Sherlock cringed inwardly. He was beginning to feel like some sort of laboratory rat, being poked and prodded and told when to sit, when to stand, when to cough, when to lie down, when to urinate.

This was not going to end well, he could tell already.

True to form, by the end of the tests and the physical, he had made two of the nurses cry, and another handful refused to help the doctor examine him anymore.

As the rectal exam drew to a close, Dr. Greenwhich sighed when his PA ran out of the room, bawling. He brought a hand up to rub at tired eyes and took a moment to contemplate the man sitting before him.

"I think you know what kind of information we would ask you about your medical history, and that of your partner. Why don't you go home and just send an email my way with all the details."

Sherlock was slightly surprised by the doctor's words. "Is that standard procedure?"

"No, but I think that would be for the best. For everyone."

Xxx

God, would he ever stop vomiting? Between all of the fluids he had lost due to the Synathida and now the early stages of pregnancy, he was surprised he had not dehydrated yet and turned to a pile of dust as he lay on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl. The website said that his appendix had doubled in size during the past five weeks. His eating habits, never very good to begin with, were now nonexistent, thanks to the morning sickness, which was in full swing during this 8th week. If his information was correct, he gathered that about half of the women who felt nauseated during their first trimester tended to find complete relief by about 14 weeks, and doctors expected the same for most men. For the rest, all the websites said that it would take about another month or so for the queasiness to ease up.

For now, all he could think of was how good the cool tile felt beneath his heated and heaving body, and he took comfort in the respite of the short period after he had vomited when his stomach settled just a little bit after expelling its contents.

Just then a knock came on the bathroom door, soft and swift.

"Sherlock, I'm going out for dumplings. Want me to bring you back some roast duck?"

So much for the break from vomiting. Even the thought of roast duck was enough to have Sherlock's head back in the toilet bowl, throwing up again.

Xxx

John knew.

He knew that he knew, but his brain was trying to protect itself, denying that the possibility could even exist.

Well, he knew very well that it _could_ exist, thanks to all of the news reports that were on the television 24/7 these days.

But he needed to hear the words, to have his assumption confirmed, to really _know_.

"Sherlock, we need to have a word," he called out through the door of the bathroom. There was a moment of silence, when even the heaving of Sherlock's stomach went still, and then the sound of the toilet being flushed and running water.

A few minutes later the bathroom door opened and a very pale, very shaky Sherlock stepped out, sea blue eyes pinned on John like a wild animal being stalked.

John knew that look, knew that it meant that Sherlock's guard was up. The brunette was not the easiest man to have a conversation with when it was about nothing of consequence—John cringed to think about how this particular discussion would go.

But there was nothing else for it. He would just have to jump right in and see where it led him.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"I don't—"

"You've been sick, restless and moody for weeks now," John cut him off, because he didn't want to hear Sherlock say that nothing was wrong. He wanted to hear the truth. "You are eating even less than usual and throwing it all up. And you're sleeping more, but you look even more tired than you ever have." He took a deep, steadying breath and looked calculatingly at the man standing across the room from him. "I know, Sherlock. At least, God, I think I know but I pray that I'm wrong. I'm not as blind as you sometimes think I am." He made a gesture to the television set that sat in their living room, off now and quiet. "I've seen the news reports, I've read the articles in the paper. I hear people talking about it all over the place….I'm going to ask once—just once—and I'll believe your answer. Just…just tell me. Are you….?"

He couldn't even say it. Didn't want to believe the feeling deep down in the pit of his stomach that knew the answer to his question even before Sherlock spoke.

And Sherlock didn't need to answer. His silence and that penetrating, silent, stare was confirmation enough.

John felt his legs give out from beneath him, and he was thankful that he was standing in front of the couch. He sank down heavily onto the worn cushions and stared blankly at the wall in front of him.

"You took the pill? You took that _Goddamn_ _pill?!_" He had a sudden, irrepressible flash back to one of his first days with Sherlock Holmes, the first case that they had worked on together, and another pill—just as reckless, just as hazardous, just as deadly—as the Synathida. John's own words came back to him, in an echo of a past conversation.

"_That's how you get your kicks. You risk your life to prove you're clever."_

"_Why would I do that?"_

"_Because you're an idiot."_

This was ridiculous, this was absurd. Sherlock—_Sherlock_ of all people—had more sense than to do something like this. That pill was a radical, experimental drug that John—and he had thought everyone else, as well—felt was unsafe and senseless.

Male pregnancy…who would want that?

Well, there was someone right in front of him who would, it seemed.

He felt sick, thinking about people taking that pill without any thought to the side-effects it might bring. Organ failure, cancer, death, so many life threatening things that it could cause…

And Sherlock had taken it without a second thought to his own safety.

"How could you be so fucking _stupid_?" The words were out of his mouth before he had even realized he had said them, and they shocked him slightly. He had never spoken to Sherlock in such a way, in such a tone, stripped of all the walls John usually kept up to protect himself from Sherlock and to protect Sherlock from everything outside of the brunette's small, perfect world that he had erected around himself.

Still, Sherlock said nothing. Made no attempt to defend himself or his decision. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see that the other man didn't even move, simply stared at John as John stared at the wall.

"How far along are you, then?"

The silence had taken on an eerie quality, sharp and deadly, and when Sherlock still would not answer John could not take it anymore. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock, say something, Goddamnit! I deserve _some_ answers!"

"2 months." The reply was short and clipped, Sherlock's deep baritone voice lingering in the dark corners of the quiet room.

2 months….

For a 9 month time frame, 2 months was a large chunk of time. Too much. Too much for anything. Too much to come to terms with the information, too much to get used to the idea, too much, too much, too much.

God, he didn't even know what he was thinking. His mind raced and would not settle on a single thought. He couldn't even grasp onto the words that he wanted to say right now, because they were suddenly pushed to the side as more thoughts and feelings tumbled down upon him.

He was drowning. That much was clear. He couldn't breathe and he was drowning now, trying to gasp for breath as he sank lower and lower and lower…

No, not drowning. He wasn't in water. Suffocating, then. He gasped uselessly, but he wasn't taking in any air. The world was closing in on him too fast, too close, his skin was tingling from the pressure of it all around him.

Ah, panic attack. Even as his brain began to shut down in anxiety his medical training kicked in, ever a comforting presence, especially in times of stress.

_Breathe, you just need to breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out._

He fought back the anxiety, the all-consuming panic of the situation. Fought it back with every breath that he took and sat, still and silent, until the hyperventilation's had passed and his mind, somewhat calmed by the steady, slow breathing, could finally focus on one thought:

Why?

Why had Sherlock done this? Why had he thought that this would be an idea even worth entertaining? Why had he jumped into it headfirst, without stopping to discuss it, to rationalize it, to think it over?

And, Christ, eventually everyone would know. Would know about the most intimate part of their relationship, what little discretion they had managed to keep from the fans and the blog and the rest of the world. Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, Mycroft….Strangers. Complete strangers would take one look at them out on the streets, in a restaurant, and know. They would _know_ and there would be nothing John could do to deny it anymore, to say it was untrue, to hide from it.

"Why did you do this to me?" he suddenly asked, unable to keep the words in his mouth any longer. "_Why?_"

Xxx

John was bordering on becoming hysterical. Sherlock knew this, but he didn't try to comfort the man.

"This isn't about you, John," Sherlock said evenly. _Lie_, his mind couldn't help but interject. His hands shook from the pain in his side and the unending roiling of his stomach and he was just too fucking _tired_ to care about it anymore. "This is about the penultimate experimentation. Jumping into the unknown and drawing all of the conclusions from first-hand experience. This is about the thrill of the puzzle and the delight of results. How it works, what it feels like, the end product. That's all this will ever be about."

"Right. The puzzle," John repeated, his tone deadpan. "And I guess you could give two bollocks that this doesn't just involve you. This involves me and…and, _God, Sherlock_, another human _being_!" John stood then, restless and agitated and unable to stay in one spot any longer. "How can you be so fucking selfish! This isn't just some _experiment_! This is a child! Your child!"

Sherlock noted that he did not say '_my_ child' or _'our_ child'. This was Sherlock's problem, is what John was saying without words. John didn't want anything to do with this.

Expected.

Still, he would be lying if he told himself it didn't hurt.

"We are standing on the brink of the next medical revolution," Sherlock explained to the man in front of him, his voice gone soft and deadly as he spoke. "Scientists are playing God now, don't you understand? This is the perfect experiment, John—a masterpiece—and it is only mine, no one else's," Sherlock watched the blonde doctor carefully as he spoke to John, the other man still striding across their living room, shoulders tense and hands balled into fists at his side. "I will deal with the consequences and I will reap the rewards. I am responsible for everything that comes out of it, entirely guilty of whatever costs it brings."

"Yeah, Sherlock, of course." John wouldn't look at him, only continued to take agitated steps around their couch, to the front door and then back again. "_Your _experiment and _your_ decision and _your_ problem. No one else's. Not even mine."

And without another word John left, striding back to the door, grabbing up his coat from the rack and slamming to door to their flat shut so hard that dust fell from the ceiling above him. The dirty teacups in the sitting room rattled harshly on their saucers, and there was an uneasiness in the pit of Sherlock's stomach that he was pretty sure had nothing to do with the embryo.

Xxx

The car came around for him not even an hour after John had left.

Sherlock had stood in their sitting room, unmoving, as he wondered at John's reaction to the news and the nagging feeling in his chest that felt like guilt or heart-ache or fear.

The light steps treading on the rickety old wooden staircase up to his flat were not John's, and so Sherlock made no movement to meet his unwanted guest as they made their way to his door. His brother's secretary was not put off by his impoliteness or his rude remarks as she led him down the stairs, out onto the street and into the luxury sedan that was parked by the curb. They didn't speak on the trip to his brother's home, and they were both fine with that. They had never had much to say to each other in the first place.

Once the car had pulled up to the front door, Sherlock let himself out and wasted no time entering Mycroft's home, heading straight to the drawing room where he knew his brother would be waiting for him.

So predictable, Mycroft was.

There wasn't even a cordial greeting between the two men. Mycroft took one look at Sherlock—pale and shaky still from his bout of evening sickness and the sallow look of his skin from the days spent vomiting and in pain— and frowned deeply. "Oh, Sherlock," he said softly, the fire crackling comfortingly behind him in the hearth. "What have you done this time?"

Sherlock chose not to answer. He simply took the seat opposite Mycroft's wing-backed chair and sat silently, letting the warmth of the fire settle into his bones and ease away the pains in his body.

"Tea, Anthea," Mycroft said across the room. "Something decaffeinated."

Behind him, Sherlock heard the quiet sounds of his brother's secretary drifting off, leaving the two men alone.

"Would you like to tell me about it, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, sounding infuriatingly calm and reasonable.

"What is there to tell?" Sherlock asked, purposefully being difficult.

"Why don't you start at the beginning of this…madness."

"Are you unhappy that you are to be an uncle, then?" he asked casually, and he could see Mycroft beginning to tire of their game.

"No," the older Holmes answered. "In fact, I find that particular piece of information rather…exhilarating. But once I have offered my congratulations, we will talk about the real heart of the issue, though."

"Of course. I didn't expect anything less."

Mycroft looked into the fire, crackling merrily in the hearth, and smiled warmly at no one in particular. "Mother would be excited," he said. "She had always wanted grandchildren. Though I'm sure she had wanted them the old fashioned way."

" 'The old fashioned way'," Sherlock scoffed, staring deeply into the fire in the hearth in front of him. "The world is changing, Mycroft. You know this as well as I do. The ways of the past are soon to become nothing more than stories. We are standing on the edge of a whole new world. And I wanted to be one of the first to step off of the ledge."

"Of course you did, Sherlock." Mycroft let out a sigh, tired and long-suffering. "Ever the explorer, ever the scientist. But I don't believe that is the only thing." He turned his gaze upon his younger brother, sharp and deadly. "Tell me the truth, the whole of it. Why did you do this?"

All the things he could not say to John tumbled out then, because Mycroft would find out one way or the other, Mycroft probably already knew, Mycroft was the only person who could always tell what Sherlock was thinking.

And Sherlock was not sure he could hold them in any longer, truthfully. For over 3 months he had kept this decision a secret from everyone. From Mycroft, from Mrs. Hudson, from John—the one person he could keep nothing from.

He was _tired_. And the fire felt so good.

"He wants children, Mycroft," Sherlock said, voice low and soft. "And I am too selfish to let him go so that he may one day find a girlfriend, or a wife, or a life that doesn't involve me at all."

Anthea came back with the tea then, two porcelain cups with matching saucers on a silver serving tray, the delicate tea pot sitting between them with a steady stream of steam coming out of the spout. She set it down gently on the table between the two men and then left again just as quietly as she had come.

"I will admit that the thought of leaving a legacy in this world has crossed my mind as well," Sherlock continued. "And there is no one on this earth who I can stomach the thought of doing that with other than John."

Then, finally, the actual reason, so selfish in its truth that Sherlock had locked it away, had barely let himself dwell on it: "And now he can't ever leave me. We will be connected forever. In this. Even if he is so mad that he cannot bear to look at me…he will have to, because he is not the kind of person to walk away from an innocent child because of its parent's actions. He will be here always, now."

Mycroft did nothing but look at him calculatingly for a very long time, as if he were trying desperately to find the right words to say to him. Finally, into the silence, he spoke, and his words cut Sherlock to the bone.

"Did you ever stop to think that you have forced him on you? Chained him to you? Like a dog, Sherlock. That is what you have made him into now. Your perfect little pet."

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to let Mycroft's words sink in. "At least, this way, I can keep him with me forever."

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head, too, slowly, sadly. "Not forever. Even pets have a tendency to run away."

"He will not," Sherlock said with all the conviction he could muster from his tired body, but his voice shook in betrayal.

Mycroft looked at him pointedly. "How do you know that?"

"Because he is John. He is too good a man to run away from something like this." He tried hard to believe his own words, to trust in what he was saying, but the fear had settled inside of him, and would not leave now.

"In all fairness, Sherlock, you don't know what he would do in a situation like this because he has never _been _in a situation like this," Mycroft argued, his voice rising as his emotions got the best of him. "You are making observations without accurate data. So very unlike you."

"My data is not inaccurate," Sherlock argued, and he tried to force himself to believe his own words. "He will be a part of this. One way or another, sooner or later. He will come back."

Mycroft said nothing for a moment, simply stared at Sherlock and let the younger man's voice be his own contradiction. "I hope your right, Sherlock," he said finally. "If only for your own sake."

"We are done here," Sherlock whispered vehemently, rising from his seat. He couldn't stand to be in this house, next to that man for one more second. "I would like to return back to Baker Street."

"Of course," Mycroft said, as if he had been waiting for the moment that Sherlock ran away from this, just like he thought Sherlock ran away from everything else.

Sherlock turned on his heel sharply and strode to the French doors of the drawing room, his shoulders set in tense lines and the pain in his side forgotten as he rolled Mycroft's words back and forth in his mind. He was almost to the door when his brother called out from behind him, saying the only thing that would make the tall brunette man stop in his tracks.

"Don't wreck this like you do everything else, Sherlock."

"Wreck it?" Sherlock repeated, in spite of himself.

"You have the opportunity to do something great here," Mycroft told him, staying seated in his chair and not even bothering to get up to continue his conversation with his brother. "But you always manage to ruin things like this."

Sherlock's hand shook as he grasped the doorknob tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure of his grasp. "I'm already the wreck, Mycroft. You know that better than anyone."

Mycroft only nodded, as if to validate Sherlock's words. "This is a very big thing you are doing, Sherlock," he said, his voice low and deep in the silence of the drawing room. "Bigger than yourself. But you had never been very good at believing such things existed in the world. I suggest you start getting used to the idea."

X.X.X.

A/N: This story is based off of the concept album Masterpiece Theatre by the band Marianas Trench. Although I did take massive liberties with the order of the songs, I managed to incorporate every song in the album into a—hopefully—seamless timeline that tells a specific story. If you would like to (and I hope that you do) follow this story through the band's album, the title of each chapter will tell you what song was used for that chapter. I will admit that, while I have used songs for inspiration many times while writing a story, this was the first time that I ever used a whole album as the basis for my plot development. It was a bigger challenge than I was expecting but also so much more creatively satisfying, as I got to manipulate not just 1 expressive outlets but 2. Just like writing, I think music is all about the context of the song and the hidden meaning buried deep within it, that can be twisted to fit the listener's needs. I was amazed at how some of the pieces of this story just fell into place with specific songs, and I could see where the plot was headed without taking it there myself.

Also, on a smaller note, for those of you geeks who would find this interesting, I took the name for the Synathida pill (which restructures the male body, allowing the appendix to become uterine-like and house a fetus) from the scientific name _Syngnathidae_—the family of fish in which the males carry their offspring through gestation, instead of the female.

The title of the next chapter, if you would like to preview the song, is 'Beside You'.


	2. Beside You

A/N: Another great big thank you to my betas, Jenamy and Haelia! And thank you to the people who have taken the time to review, follow or favorite—seeing that makes my heart happy!

Xxx

It had started a few years ago, as all the articles stated. It began with mice. Scientists had successfully been able to artificially impregnate male mice. The female mice, responding to the hormones produced by the fertilized males, began lactating, even though they themselves were not pregnant.

But the males could not give birth to the offspring, and, after a few attempts to see what course nature would take on its own (in which the males and fetuses all, invariably, died) the scientists began to operate on the male mice to see if the babies could survive. In the beginning, none did.

But then, slowly, after much experimentation, a few scientists were able to successfully pull live young from the fathers.

Still, the male mice inevitably died.

Until, after some time, they didn't.

And when scientists were able to keep the neo-natal mice, and the males alive, they proceeded to experiment on rabbits. And then pigs. Then chimpanzees. And, finally, humans.

A medical marvel, some hailed it as. Others called it an abomination.

The lead scientist behind the experiments—Dr. Michelle Benson—was hailed as a genius, a madwoman, a creator, a butcher. Whatever she was called, good or bad, almost everyone was in agreement that she was trying to play God, and that was the heart of the conflict.

John knew that Sherlock didn't put much stock in God. There was ever only science in his world. His faith was built on facts, deductions, information, calculations. There was only that which he could see, touch, feel with his own two hands. Science and medicine and reason. So of course the consulting detective had no qualms about taking the pill, Synathida. Sherlock was a man of experimentation, of gaining first-hand knowledge, of risk for the sake of excitement.

John should have seen this coming from the first day that Sherlock had come home to their flat, agitated and interested by the publication of the article in his science magazine.

But he had, once again, underestimated Sherlock—something he was beginning to understand could have dire consequences.

No, instead of discussing the article with Sherlock like the consulting detective had wanted, John had opted to ignore it. Ignore the idea, ignore the details, ignore Sherlock's morbid curiosity with it. Ignore the fact that it could give John something he had always wanted. Something a deep-down part of him had wanted with Sherlock.

Well, that thought wasn't going to be good for anyone, was it? So he continued to ignore it, and he continued to hide the longing glances at families when they were out to dinner, or the flutters of his heartbeat when he held Molly's new baby.

But he supposed he should have known that he couldn't hide it forever. Not from Sherlock.

He groaned as he stretched out on the shoddy little couch in Lestrade's small, one bedroom flat. Behind him, in the kitchen, he heard the Detective Inspector already up and making tea.

"Sleep well?" Greg asked him, much too chipper for the hour of the day.

John brought up a hand to work out the muscles in a crick in his neck. "All right," he answered, not voicing the thought that it was nothing compared to sleeping in his own bed, next to Sherlock, warm and comforting.

"Not that I'm complaining about you staying here—I like the company, see—but how long do you plan on keeping out of Baker Street?" Lestrade asked him, companionably.

John shrugged noncommittally. When he had stormed out on Sherlock a week and a half ago, he had no idea as to where he was going. He just knew that he couldn't stay in the flat with Sherlock for a moment longer. He had not planned on staying gone this long—after all, he had taken no clothing or anything of importance with him—but as time went on the thought of going back to Baker Street was giving him a severe case of anxiety, and he didn't like to think about Sherlock or that damned pill or the fact that Sherlock was….

"As long as I need. Hope that's okay?"

"I told you, I don't mind the company," Lestrade said as he fixed himself a cup of tea and sat down next to John on the couch. "But…you never really mentioned what you two were arguing over. And you haven't been down to a case with him since you started staying over."

That perked John up, slightly. "You've seen him? He's come to look at cases?"

Lestrade began to look a tad uncomfortable, as if he were being pulled into the middle of a situation he did not want to be in. "Well, yeah. I thought you knew that." He found the dregs in the bottom of his teacup suddenly very interesting. "He never called to tell you when he was coming around?"

"No," John said simply, letting the bitterness seep into his voice. He sighed again and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair.

Lestrade gave a low whistle and small chuckle. "Wow. It must be a bad argument then, if he doesn't even want to have his handler around," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Instead, John cringed at his words. "Don't call me that!" he said, and his voice was slightly louder than he had meant for it to be.

Taken aback by John's sudden response, Lestrade held his empty hands up in submission. "Okay, okay, sorry mate….You know I don't mean anything by it. It's just a nickname everyone—"

"Well it's not true," John cut him off, petulantly. "If I were able to handle him, my life would be a hell of a lot easier to deal with," he finished, sounding more tired than he looked.

"What was it, then?" Greg asked, placing a friendly, comforting hand on John's lap. John could feel the heat of the detective's palm through the thin material of his borrowed pajama bottoms and he tried to ignore the fact that he hadn't been this close to another human being since a couple of weeks after Sherlock had taken the Synathida, due to the constant vomiting the pill—and then the subsequent pregnancy—had induced in his partner. "He cheat on you with some science experiment? Or…oh no, John. You didn't mess around on him, did you?"

"What?" John said, dragging his mind away from the thought of how long it had been since he had had sex and back into the room, and conversation he was having, with Lestrade. "No! No one cheated on anyone!"

He and Sherlock had never told anyone at Scotland Yard about their relationship, but John had found that, over the past year and a half, he hadn't really needed to. Anyone who didn't think they were sleeping together before they actually started were most definitely thinking so now (especially after the case with the exotic dancer who couldn't keep her hands off of John) and most people made no mention of it, except for a few snide comments or jokes from Anderson or Donovan.

"Well, that's good," Greg said, with genuine relief in his voice. "I'd hate to see what Sherlock would be like as a scorned lover."

There was a moment of awkward silence, as John let the conversation die down and he worked up the courage to ask the question he had been wondering ever since Lestrade had told him that Sherlock was still going to crime scenes on a regular basis.

"How has he…been?"

He hated that he sounded like such a girl, but he couldn't help it—he had to know.

"Been?" Lestrade repeated, not sure of what John was asking.

"When he comes to cases—does he look…well?" John tried a different approach. He had to remind himself that all of the people down at Scotland Yard most likely didn't know about Sherlock's condition, and he wasn't about to be the one who let the cat out of the bag.

"Aye, he looks well enough," Lestrade answered, standing from his spot next to John to take his teacup back to the kitchen and clean up before heading out to work. "A bit peaky, if you ask me. Tired-looking, too. More so than usual."

John wondered if Sherlock was eating and sleeping enough. He felt a sharp pang begin to grow in his chest from the fact that he wasn't there with Sherlock to help the man through this.

Well, that was Sherlock's own damn fault. Not John's.

Right. And the sun really _did_ revolve around the earth.

"Time to get to work, then?" Greg asked when John made no attempt to speak. "I'll stop by the store on the way home and pick up a few things for dinner. How's spaghetti sound?"

John made a noise of approval in the back of his throat and continued to sit on the couch as Greg moved about the flat and finished his morning routine. It was only after the detective had left that John finally mustered up the energy to haul himself off of the couch and go about preparing for his day at the surgery.

He hoped—prayed, really—that today would be different from the other days. That he would, finally, get a moment of respite from the never-ending cycle of thoughts about Sherlock. But yesterday had been proof that today would be the same as all the other days.

Xxx

John was beginning to worry.

Lestrade's shift today was supposed to have ended around 6, and the doctor knew that he may very well have gotten called out to a late case, but it was almost midnight now and the detective had not called or even sent John a quick text like he had done the other two times that he had been late since John had come to stay with him.

No, something was wrong. He knew it.

Just as he was about to give up the waiting game and head out to Scotland Yard, he heard Lestrade's key turn the latch on his front door. The detective came into the flat slowly, looking weary, and John instantly went to him to be sure he was all right.

"It's fine, it's fine," Greg said, sounding slightly dazed. "Jus' been a long day, tha's all."

Convinced that he wasn't hurt, John helped him down onto the couch and then went straight to the kitchen to make a pot of tea for the both of them.

"What happened?" John asked, filling the kettle and putting it on the stovetop. "You look beat. I was starting to get worried when you didn't come home."

"Yeah, sorry I couldn't text," Greg said with a deep sigh as he relaxed back into the cushions of the couch. "We caught a late case. High priority. No one could leave until it was taken care of."

"Murder?" John asked, making small talk to keep Greg awake until the tea was done.

"No, a hostage situation. Those protesters for that new pill, Sinathed-something—"

"Synathida," John said, lowly, his breath catching and his heart hammering away in his chest.

"Yeah, that one. At the Yard we just call 'em anti-Synaths. Anyways, there was a rally at one of the medical plazas in downtown London, and a few of them were feeling froggy and they snatched up a pregnant bloke—just took him right as he was walking out the front door of the doctor's office—and decided to try to make an example out of him."

"Oh my God."

"Don't worry. It took a little finesse, but we were able to take out a couple of the perps, and the others decided that their point had just gotten a whole lot smaller at that moment, so they bolted. Police officers found them all and brought them in."

"And what about the man?" John asked, pouring two cups of tea for them once the kettle began to go off and taking them carefully into the living room. He handed one slowly to Lestrade. "The pregnant one that they had taken hostage?"

"Hmm? Oh, him." Lestrade reached out to take the cup from John, blowing on it slightly before taking a small sip. "He was a bit shook up—naturally—but I wasn't assigned to dealing with him, so I don't know how he came out of it….It makes you think though, if all of this is worth it."

John sat down heavily next to Lestrade on the couch, turning towards the detective inspector with a frown on his face. "What?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I'm just saying, look at all of the stuff that's been going on. All of the rallies and the protests against it. The precinct over in Edinburgh said that they have dealt with a bomb threat related to it. Arsons have jumped up 32 percent over the past couple of months, most of them home-related. I don't know, John. If it were me, I don't think I would risk any of it."

A lump grew in John's chest, making it uncomfortable and hard to breathe. "Well, it's not you, now is it?" he said to Lestrade before he could stop himself. "So you don't have to worry about any of it!" The words came out harsher-sounding than he had meant them to, and as he stood quickly he noticed that his hands were shaking and his heart was hammering away in his chest in something that felt strangely like fear.

Here he was, safe and sound in Lestrade's flat, going to his innocuous little job every day and happily ignoring everything that was happening in the world around him while Sherlock was….

Sherlock was alone. John had left him that way.

Alone and pregnant in a world that was quickly becoming a dangerous place for males that were those things.

"John, what—" Greg began, trying to get up to reach out to the blonde doctor. "Are you all right?"

But John moved away from him, walking towards the door of the flat decisively. "I need some air," he said. "Going for a walk."

He had barely made it out of Greg's flat and onto the sidewalk when the car pulled up to the curb, as if it had been waiting for the moment that John stepped out of his friend's flat.

He sighed as the door opened and Anthea's petty, smiling face looked up at him from the depths of the car. "Hello, Dr. Watson. I'm to bring you in."

_Of course_, John thought to himself as he slipped into the car and closed the door behind him. There was no fighting it.

There never was.

Xxx

He was taken to Mycroft's home this time. Surprising, since the elder Holmes usually liked to make a more elaborate scene and meet with him in dark, abandoned factories or vacant lots out in the middle of nowhere.

But John could appreciate the attempt at comfort that Mycroft was putting forth. John really would not have found it pleasant if he had spent half the night—late as it was already—in some dark, dingy, drafty building. At least, this way, he got the chance to sit in front of a fire and have a hot cup of tea served to him by Mycroft's secretary.

The drawing room of Mycroft's home looked like something that a Holmes would have in his house. It was filled with books of all different genres and editions, and there were antiques and curiosities placed throughout the room, some more dead than others. John sat in a wing-backed chair by the fire in silence as Anthea brought in the tea service, and Mycroft took his time mixing his cup. Mycroft had not brought him here to listen to John talk, after all, and John knew this.

When his tea was finally prepared to his specifications, the elder Holmes brother at last turned his attention onto John.

"He did this for you, you know," he said in way of greeting. John wasn't surprised—neither of the Holmes men were much for polite pleasantries.

"Please, spare me, Mycroft," he said with a long suffering sigh. "Sherlock doesn't do anything if it's not for himself."

The older gentleman smiled slightly, lifting his teacup to try to hide it. "Well, I won't lie—that still holds true," he acknowledged after he had taken a sip. "But you are the first person in his life that he changes the rules for. After Moriarty, he didn't have to come back. In fact, it would have been safer for him if he had not. But he couldn't bear to leave you that way." He set the delicate cup back onto the saucer with a harsh clink and turned his sharp, dangerous eyes onto John. "You have always had a powerful sway over my brother, Dr. Watson, whether you believe it or not. And now, with this…he told me that he wanted to give this to you, this thing that you would not be able to have otherwise. Twisted as his intentions may be, he had an honorable idea at the very heart of it."

John scoffed. Honorable idea his arse. "Yes, well, he really muddied it up, didn't he?" he told the other man. "If he had talked to me about it, Mycroft, _discussed_ with me what he was thinking…we could have made the decision together."

"Would you have said yes, John?" Mycroft asked, his voice calm and level in the deep silence of the room. "Would you have taken even a moment to think about it and say yes?"

John sat very quiet, not answering.

"I think we both know the answer," Mycroft announced, sounding almost pleased to have made his point so effortlessly. "You are a man of medicine, and I know what you think of this pill. Unsafe and hazardous and unpredictable. There is no way you would have let Sherlock take it, even to give you something that you so desperately want. Sherlock knew this. And so he took the decision out of your hands, Dr. Watson. You get all of the rewards without any of the guilt, now."

"The rewards?" he asked in disbelief. "This isn't a game, Mycroft! There are no winners and losers, and there certainly are no rewards."

"Are there not?" the elder Holmes brother asked carefully. "Well, we'll just have to wait and see about that."

John stood from his seat quickly, because he couldn't bear to sit in front of Mycroft and continue with the conversation for a second longer. "Are we done now? Because I think I've heard quite enough."

"Very well, Dr. Watson. Anthea will escort you home, if you insist on walking out on this discussion."

John ignored the jab and moved towards the drawing room exit, intent on going back to Lestrade's and falling into a very deep sleep, when Mycroft's voice behind him stopped him in his tracks.

"He has a checkup next week, at the family planning clinic in the Renaissance Medical Plaza. Tuesday, at 8 am."

"Why would I care about that?" John asked quietly, stopping in spite of himself.

"I'm not saying you do," Mycroft said, a devious smile tugging at the edges of his lips. "I'm just putting the information out there. Do with it what you will."

John chose not to answer him. Instead, he hurriedly made his way towards the door, intent on getting out of the room as quick as he could. He almost managed it, too, before Mycroft's voice called out to him again.

"He can't do this without you, John. He is not as strong as he thinks himself to be. And he will not take help from any other. Only you. It's always been only you. Don't leave him alone in this."

John stopped, his hand on the brass doorknob for only a moment before he yanked the door open and flew out of the room, intent on never seeing Mycroft Holmes again for as long as he lived.

Xxx

Over the next few days, John was distracted and on edge. He snapped at Lestrade for no reason and felt horrible afterwards. After all, the detective was being much more gracious than John would have expected, letting the blonde doctor bunk on his couch for what could possibly be an eternity.

The night before Sherlock's appointment, John tossed and turned on Lestrade's couch, restless and agitated. There was a nagging, niggling feeling in the back of his mind and in the middle of his chest that he could not get rid of.

He never got to sleep, and when the first gray streams of light began to illuminate the corners of Lestrade's living room through the shabby curtain over the dirty window, John gave up the battle and sat up, rubbing at his face tiredly.

He got his few things together and washed up quietly, not wanting to bother Greg, and made his way out of the flat silently, leaving only a made-up couch and a small note of thanks scribbled on the pad by the phone.

It was time he went back to where he belonged. It was time he went home.

Xxx

The streets were busy this time of morning with all of the commuters and people heading to work. But as he made his way to the Renaissance Medical Plaza, he noticed that the crowds of people he was passing were getting distinctly more restless, and, as he got closer to the doctor's office, there were many who were holding up signs with hateful messages scrawled on them in red ink.

John hunkered into himself and fought his way through the back end of the extremely large crowd that was gathering around the front of the doctor's offices. The crowd was split up on either side of the walkway that led to the front doors, and John could see police officers already patrolling the sidewalk, making sure that the anti-Synaths were not being too disruptive. John had almost made it to the front lines of the crowd when three cop cars suddenly pulled up, lights flashing but sirens off.

The crowd around John suddenly surged forward, voices rising and people pushing against him. He got caught between two people on either side of him, and he stumbled forward, using the person in front of him to steady himself.

This was madness. He couldn't believe how agitated the crowd was getting. There was no way—

His thought got cut off as the doors to the police cars opened, and the crowd around him began to yell and shove harder, pushing itself around the men who were being escorted by the police officers out of the cars.

There were 9, maybe 10 men that were being pulled into a tight circle by the police officers flanking them, and moving slowly down the walkway that had not stayed clear of protesters. John searched the faces of each man that was brought out of the escort cars, seeing fear and anxiety and panic and—

There.

One man whose face was impassive. Whose cold, calculating eyes took in everything around him and brushed it off, as if it were nothing.

"Sherlock!" he called out, trying to get the brunette's attention, but the crowd was growing louder around him, and he could barely hear his own voice over the din. "_Sherlock_!"

He tried to push his way past the crowd that was surrounding him, tried to get closer to the small group of scared-looking men who were being escorted through the throng of people and towards the front doors of the clinic, but he couldn't get any nearer. The people in front of him were thrusting forward their signs and their hands, shouting obscenities that were lost in the din of everyone else around them.

There were so many people….

And then, suddenly, through a break in the crowd, John could see Sherlock, taller than all the other men being escorted with him, in the center of their small group, his sharp, pale green eyes looking around him calculatingly.

"_SHERLOCK_!"

He lunged forward, uncaring of the protesters he pushed aside. At last Sherlock seemed to hear him, because he turned towards John, but the crowd was still too thick and he couldn't see the blonde man.

But John could see him. And he could see in that brief second when he heard his name being called that Sherlock was searching for him, hoping to see him, forehead furrowed and eyes moving over the crowd desperately….

John had seen that look in Sherlock's face few enough times to realize with sudden dread what it was. Sherlock was scared.

His Sherlock—so brave and fearless—was in the middle of a hundred men and women who were pushing against him, yelling obscenities towards him, throwing things at him, and John could see the concern in the deep lines of his face.

He pushed harder at the human wall in front of him, shoving in earnest now, and he began to feel the bodies give way against his harsh hands.

"Sherlock!"

He was closer now, and still pushing through the crowd, coming up to the walkway that the men were being escorted down. As he called out Sherlock's name one more time, the tall brunette turned once more, searching for him again. Sherlock caught sight of him just as someone shoved at John harshly, sending him stumbling.

"John!"

He regained his footing and pushed back against the people around him, shouldering them away so that he could have room to breathe. A few feet ahead of him, Sherlock was fighting against the small group of men being escorted towards the building, trying to get to John, but the men were panicking around him, afraid to get too close to the protesters. They kept Sherlock within their ranks, hands coming up to pull him back in when he tried to get away from them.

"John!" He saw Sherlock reach a hand out, and he tried desperately to grab at it, but the brunette was too far away, the crowd was too strong against him, and he couldn't reach.

The group of patients passed by John and continued down the walkway, heading for the front door to the building. When he finally made it to the front lines, John reached out quickly for the first police officer he could find.

"I need to get into the building!"

"Sorry, sir. No one in except patients."

"But, I—I'm with one of them. One of the patients. I'm the—the…." He trailed off because he didn't know exactly what he was trying to say. He was having to scream at the man to be heard over the crowd, and he became increasingly aware of the protesters closest to him who were turning to stare at him.

The thought rapidly crossed his mind that this could turn ugly very, very quickly.

But the officer would not be swayed.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we have strict orders not to let anyone—"

"But I need to be in there with him!" John shouted, frustrated. "I need to know if he's okay, I haven't seen him since he told me about this. Please!" And then, in desperation, he pleaded. "Go ask him. His name is Sherlock Holmes. I am John Watson. Just please, go let him know that I'm here…"

The officer looked at him calculatingly, and finally, with a deep sigh, nodded. "Follow me and stay close," he said as he turned into the mob and started making his way towards the door. Once they had made their way to the front of the office, he turned towards John once again. "Wait right here. I'll go in and ask if they want you in there."

John nodded at him and the man left, leaving John to fight the mob that was closing in around him. He couldn't believe that so many had shown up to protest this clinic's involvement. He had always thought that their neighborhood was accepting of alternate lifestyles, but this…this proved just how very, very wrong he was.

Suddenly, a loud whistle split the air close to him, and he turned towards the front doors to see the officer waving him over. He shoved against the thick wall of people standing in his way, using more force than may have been necessary, but he didn't care. All he could think about was getting away from that crowd, getting to the safety of the building and seeing…

Sherlock.

The dark haired man sat in a chair along the far wall, away from all of the other patients, staring apprehensively at the doors as John fell through them, out of breath and slightly disoriented from the closeness of the people who had been around him.

He didn't move as John strode across the empty waiting room towards him—he wanted John to come to him, that was clear to the doctor—but John didn't care. He would go to Sherlock, he would give it all. It didn't matter if Sherlock wouldn't meet him in the middle, he didn't care about that anymore. All he wanted to know was that Sherlock was safe, and Sherlock was fine and Sherlock was—

In his arms, crushing John to him, grasping onto the doctor's shoulders with hands that were shaking only slightly and burying his face into the crook of John's neck, breathing in deep.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Lestrade was telling me about the protests and the arsons and the kidnappings and I knew that your appointment was today and I…I got so scared that you would…"

He got cut off by Sherlock's lips pressing insistently against his own.

For a moment he stood, too stunned to kiss Sherlock back. Sherlock had never been one for public displays of affection and John was caught off guard but the suddenness and ferocity of Sherlock's kiss.

But those things melted away as John opened up to the kiss, relief and happiness flooding him and washing away all of the things in the past. The fight and the harsh words and the fear.

Mycroft had been right. After seeing the mob of protesters today, John knew that this was not something for Sherlock to do by himself. They needed to be together, to be by each other's side, to help each other make it through this.

He would do that for Sherlock.

He would do anything for Sherlock.

This was where he belonged, right here beside Sherlock, holding the man's hand as they made it through this ordeal together.

They were broken apart by a small sound off to the side of them, a throat being cleared softly. When they pulled away from each other, they saw a short, round woman in a white doctor's coat smiling at them, holding a clipboard up to her chest.

"Mr. Holmes? I'm Dr. Lambert. Dr. Greenwhich is still with one of his other patients, so I'll be taking care of you today." The woman turned towards John and her smile seemed to grow to epic proportions. "I don't believe anyone here has met your friend, Mr. Holmes," she said pleasantly. "Is this the fath—"

"John Watson," John cut her off, holding out his hand for her to shake. As much as he wanted to be here with Sherlock, he was still a little trepidatious about the whole situation. It was still so new, and John knew that it would take a whole lot of getting used to before he was okay with words like 'father' and 'baby'.

If Sherlock caught what John was doing, he said nothing about it, letting it slip past unmentioned. For once, John was thankful for Sherlock's silence.

The doctor led the two men back into the exam rooms past the lobby of the main office. She tried making them as comfortable as possible as she rummaged about the small cupboards and drawers in the small exam room for her equipment, but John couldn't help but feel a little out of place. It was the first time he had been to an appointment like this and he was feeling completely out of his depth.

Sherlock, he noticed, looked no more uncomfortable than he did when he was in the morgue at St. Bart's, though he did seem slightly more bored. John could do nothing more than stand quietly by him as he settled his long, slender frame onto the exam chair, letting Dr. Lambert pull and tug his shirt and trousers out of the way as she squeezed a generous amount of gel onto the pale skin of his abdomen.

"Okay," she said, pulling out a fetal Doppler from its spot in one of the large pockets of her white coat. "Are you ready to hear it?"

Lying on the chair, Sherlock nodded, and John caught the quick glance of his eyes up to John's, to be sure the doctor had not gone anywhere.

The doctor pressed the small wand part of the Doppler to Sherlock's lower abdomen, digging into the soft flesh. It looked uncomfortable as she moved the stick around to find the perfect spot, and he saw Sherlock grimace slightly.

But the look of discomfort faded almost instantly as a sound, soft and swift and deep, filled the silence of the room.

An unfathomable roll, like the sound of far off thunder, constant, consistent, continuous. If filled John's ears and stopped his heart. He suddenly realized that Sherlock's hand was in his own, squeezing harshly, but he didn't remember ever reaching out for the other man. It didn't matter though. They were connected, the three of them, by sound and touch and breath. By the very beat that filled the room. His hand came up to run shaking fingers through Sherlock's hair, brushing the curls out of his face so that John could see him, see this man who now not only held John's heart, but their baby's as well.

_Their baby_.

He could hardly believe it. How could he have thought he could possibly stay away from this? How could he have thought he had wanted nothing to do with it?

He called himself twenty kinds of idiot and laughed out loud from the sheer relief that he had not been stupid enough to ruin this. Sherlock answered his laugh with a chuckle of his own, sounding relieved as well, as if he had thought exactly the same thing as John.

And then John remembered that it was _Sherlock_ and he very well might be thinking the exact same thing as John.

"Congratulations, guys. You seem to have a very healthy-sounding baby on your hands."

Xxx

They waited until the police had cleared out the protest mob before leaving. After the story Greg had told John yesterday, the blonde man was not about to take any chances. Surprisingly, Sherlock agreed with him and they waited for what had seemed like forever, until John had deemed it clear enough outside to leave and head back home.

When they got back to their flat, Mrs. Hudson had greeted John happily, saying that she was glad he had taken Sherlock back. The consulting detective did nothing to save John from her hugs, or clarify her thoughts.

"Have you told her?" John asked quietly, when Mrs. Hudson had finally let him go and rushed downstairs to make them all some tea.

"Of course not. I haven't told anyone," Sherlock answered, heading straight for the couch and plopping down tiredly in it.

John could see the lines of fatigue in the set of Sherlock's face, the dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his skin. He realized with some embarrassment that he had no idea how Sherlock had been fairing with the pregnancy for the past two weeks since John had been gone and he was reluctant to bring it up, even though he really wanted to know.

"So, how have—" he started awkwardly, but just then Mrs. Hudson bustled back into their flat, carrying a tray of biscuits to go along with their tea.

"All right boys. It will just be another few—"

"Mrs. Hudson," John cut her off, smiling at her softly. "Do you mind giving us a few minutes? I'd like for us to talk over some things for a bit."

"Oh, of course, dearie, how silly of me. You've only just come back home. I'm sorry. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

John waited for a moment after Mrs. Hudson left, moving carefully to sit on the edge of the couch next to Sherlock and brushing the dark curls off of his forehead with a soft touch, almost afraid that Sherlock would push his hand away. "How have you been, then? Still got the—the morning sickness?"

Sherlock groaned at the reminder of it and shuffled uncomfortably on the cushions of the couch, but he didn't pull away from John's hand, or ask the doctor to move. "It's been dreadful," he answered, squeezing his eyes shut at the thought of it. "Every day I think I've vomited myself into death by dehydration, but it just keeps coming. And the cramping has been getting worse, too. How do women stand this?"

John chuckled softly. "Well, women are made more for it than you are, Sherlock Holmes."

"I can do anything just as well as anyone else," Sherlock answered, bitterly. "Better even."

"Of course you can," John said with a sigh. "Come on. Let's turn in early tonight. I bet you could use the rest."

He hauled Sherlock off of the couch and wrapped his arms around the tall figure. It felt good to be this near to Sherlock again; he hadn't realized how much he had missed it.

The doctor maneuvered Sherlock into the downstairs bedroom, Sherlock's room that they had taken to sleeping in together after they had made their relationship physical. As gently as he could, he laid Sherlock on the bed, undressing him slowly and pulling the covers up around him when he had removed all of his clothing, tucking him in, like a child. Then he got up and walked around the bed.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, turning around quickly so that he could keep his eyes on John.

"I'm just coming over to my side," John explained, pulling off his own jumper and taking off his trousers. When he was undressed he slipped into the bed beside Sherlock, moving closer to the brunette, who was settling back into the mattress, pushing against John as the doctor snuggled close to him.

They laid there like that for an immeasurable amount of time, John's hands wandering over Sherlock's body in a soothing manner, feeling the ribs that were poking through Sherlock's skin—a definitive sign that the brunette was not eating nearly enough, still—the soft hair that fell lightly across the top of his cheekbone, the belly that was just slightly more full than John had ever remembered seeing or feeling it….

After some time, Sherlock turned onto his back and moved his face to look at John.

"Why aren't you asleep?" the doctor asked. "I know you must be tired."

"I can't sleep," Sherlock said, his deep baritone voice a quiet whisper in the darkness of their room. "I keep thinking about all of those people at the clinic today—the protesters. I've never seen anything like that before in my life." He was silent for a moment, and John had the distinct impression that he was choosing his words carefully. "It's made me wonder…if I was wrong to do this. They could escalate at any moment, and I still have so long before the end….What if they decide to come after all of the people who have taken the pill? What if the police can't stop all of them? Have I done something that I can't handle, John? Have I finally gotten in over my head?"

"Listen to me, Sherlock," John said, wrapping his arms tightly around the other man and holding him close in the darkness. "You are so brave, and so strong, and so amazing. I would never, not in a million years, have the courage to do what you're doing."

"It may not be courage, John," Sherlock whispered into John's chest. "It may just be selfishness, or short-sightedness, or madness."

"No." John shook his head, even though Sherlock couldn't see him through the blackness. "Even if I believed you did this just for the puzzle, we both know what is at stake now. And you are not backing out. That's courage, Sherlock," he said, giving the man wrapped in his arms a squeeze. "Whatever you may think, whatever others may tell you…listen to what _I'm_ telling you, right now. For you to have walked out of that door this morning and gone to Dr. Greenwhich's…that took a bravery I'm not sure I would even have been able to muster. This thing that you're doing for—for me, for _us_…it's amazing, and I just want to thank you. And I want you to know that I won't leave you to do this on your own again. I'll be here with you for the rest of it…no matter what it is. I will stay right beside you the whole way through and all of those people out there—all of those protesters—they will have to make it through me to get to you. I won't let anybody hurt you. Or our baby."

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, and when he finally spoke again his voice was steady and strong. "I'm not scared of those people, John. I can protect myself from them."

John sighed softly, finding the top of Sherlock's head with his lips. He placed a small kiss there and then smoothed out the hair with his hand. "I saw you out there today, Sherlock," he said. "I saw the look on your face. It's okay. It's scary and it's confusing, but I promise you that I will fight with every breath in me to make sure nothing will hurt you. You trust me, don't you? That I will protect you and our baby with everything I have in me?"

"John, I…yes. I trust you."

"Good," the doctor said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Sleep, Sherlock. I will stay right here beside you. I promise."

He felt Sherlock press back into him, and John maneuvered to fit himself right behind Sherlock, their bodies pressed close to each other. John's hand moved to lie across Sherlock's abdomen, fingers searching carefully against Sherlock's skin, and the brunette man drifted off into sleep, the pressure of John's hand a comforting presence that he felt even in unconsciousness.

X.X.X

A/N: Next chapter, 'Cross my heart'. It's a bit fluffier, too—don't worry. This story won't be all about the angst and drama, lol.


	3. Cross My Heart

A/N: Many hugs and thanks must go out to my beta, Jenamy, for keeping the ball moving on this story so well and fine tuning everything! You are greatness!

X.X.X

During the next couple of weeks, the men of Baker St began a new ritual to start off their days. Every morning Sherlock would wake to the smells of a healthy—and nausea-inducing—breakfast being made in the kitchen, and he would lounge in bed lazily until John got tired of waiting for him, and the doctor would come into the bedroom to rouse him out from under the sheets.

Most mornings, Sherlock was surprised to find that he had slept most of the night away, but he was still tired when John kicked him out of bed as breakfast was finishing cooking. He tried voicing his concern to the doctor, but John didn't seem to think it was worthy of any sort of alarm.

"Your body is adjusting to being pregnant," John told him patiently one morning, after breakfast had been eaten (or, at least, pushed around the plate by Sherlock) and the doctor had him lying on his back on the couch. For the past few days, the blonde man had been indulging in a new morning habit of trying to feel for the top of Sherlock's appendix through the consulting detective's lower abdomen. "Your body is working overtime developing the placenta for the fetus. And your metabolism and hormone levels are surging, which triggers a decrease in blood sugar and blood pressure. All of these result in pregnancy fatigue. Don't worry; your energy level will increase over the next few weeks once the placenta construction is completed."

Sherlock hummed a response, only half-listening to John as the doctor continued to push around his intestines. Most mornings John ended up throwing in the towel after 10 or 15 minutes of poking and prodding uselessly at Sherlock's stomach, earning nothing but a smack of the hand and a round of curses when he inevitably annoyed the pregnant man too much. But this morning, only a few minutes into his search, John's fingers stilled, pressed deep into the soft flesh of Sherlock's right side. "I think I can feel it."

"Really?"

Sherlock put down the newspaper he had been reading with some interest. Every morning he resigned himself to letting John poke around his belly incessantly, and he had tried his best to keep his mouth shut and his temper in check, but he had thought that John wouldn't find anything of interest for weeks yet.

"Yeah, just a bit. I only noticed it 'cause it feels slightly different from yesterday. It's grown. Just a bit, but it's grown." John smiled at him then, a radiant, blinding smile that had Sherlock responding with one of his own before the brunette man even knew what he was doing.

He knew what John was thinking. This was the first time, other than the sonogram the other week which had ended too soon, that they had actual, solid proof of the transformation going on inside Sherlock's body—other than the bathroom being constantly in use whenever John wanted to use it.

With the smile still on his face, John leaned over Sherlock's body until their faces were aligned and kissed him passionately, his hands still resting on Sherlock's stomach between them. They had shared quick, chaste kisses in the weeks since Sherlock had finished ovulating (both before and after John had found out about the pregnancy and left) but Sherlock had been feeling so sick, first from the Synathida and then from the resulting pregnancy, that the two weeks of love-making during his ovulation period had been nothing more than a brief interim between bouts of vomiting and cramping.

And he could tell the moment that John's kiss changed—became too surging, too passionate—that this was not going to end happily for the doctor.

"How would you like to celebrate with a little pregnancy sex?" John asked, his mouth parting from Sherlock's to explore the brunette's neck.

Sherlock held back a groan by the barest of threads and he pushed ever so lightly against John's body with his hands, hating that he was denying the man but unable to stomach the thought of having sex. "John, I doubt very much that you would appreciate it if I threw up all over during the middle of foreplay."

John would not be so easily denied, though. "I wouldn't care," he whispered against Sherlock's skin, his hands roaming upwards now, towards the top buttons of Sherlock's pajama top. He had moved to lie gently across Sherlock as the brunette man still lounged on the couch, careful to keep any pressure off of the man below him.

Sherlock appreciated the sentiment, but he couldn't help but give John a 'you've got to be joking' look. He said nothing else and waited, unmoving and un-responding to John's advances until the doctor finally gave up with a sigh, dropping his head in frustration onto Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock, it's been ages since we've had sex!" he complained, sounding whinier than Sherlock was sure he intended. "I can't remember the last time I've gone this long without it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's dramatics. "15 weeks ago we had enough sex to last you through next year, John," he chastised. "Leave me alone and let me curl into myself and die in peace." To drive his point home, Sherlock began moving beneath the doctor, forcing John to shift off of him and allowing Sherlock to curl almost all 6 feet of himself up into a slightly-ridiculous looking ball on the short couch cushions.

"But, Sherlock," John protested, not being deterred, "15 weeks ago you weren't nearly as sexy as you are now."

Sherlock scoffed at John's words. '_Sexy_' was not how Sherlock would describe himself right now. Not by a long shot. What little breakfast he had eaten that morning was roiling around uncomfortably in his stomach and if the past 12 weeks were any indication, the food was dangerously close to coming out one of two ways. The pain in his side had been so horrible last night that he had not been able to move, and John (ever the cuddler) had snuggled so close to him that Sherlock had ended up sweating through his pajamas for most of the night. He could still smell the dried perspiration on his clothes. Not to mention the fact that he was bloated from his hands to his stomach and all the way down to his legs and feet.

No. Definitely _not_ sexy.

He told John as much but the blonde refused to take his hands off of Sherlock, continuing to rub them along any part of the consulting detective Sherlock would let him touch.

"Well, I think you've never been more irresistible," John said, in what Sherlock had come to know as his 'bedroom voice'. Usually, that alone was enough to set Sherlock off, but it seemed futile today.

"Then you're an idiot," Sherlock said snappishly, pushing John's hands off of him completely and turning his back to John as he flipped over on the couch. "God, I hope our child isn't as stupid as you are."

Xxx

After a very strenuous day of no sex, John couldn't help but fall into bed that night, tense and wound up rather pathetically, but he had told himself that he wouldn't continue to paw at Sherlock like a horny school boy anymore. He had _some_ dignity, after all.

Well, a little bit of dignity, he corrected as Sherlock came into the bedroom, dressing gown off and wearing only his pajama bottoms and a thin, white cotton t-shirt. It set off Sherlock's pale skin and dark hair perfectly, and John could do nothing but stare like a loon.

As the tall man carefully crawled into bed, grimacing at the uncomfortable cramps he was still feeling in his back and lower abdomen, John quickly moved to the edge of his side of the bed, turning his back to Sherlock and patting the comforter down as a barrier between them.

"What, no cuddles tonight?" Sherlock asked teasingly.

"No," John groused. "You don't deserve any cuddles."

"Oh no," Sherlock moaned with fake sorrow. "Whatever will I do without you clinging to me while I try to sleep comfortably at night?" he mocked, and John could feel him settling down on his side of the bed with a happy sigh, pulling most of the covers around himself and leaving John with only a sliver to keep himself warm.

"Good night, John," he said cheerily. "I hope you sleep well, because I think I will finally manage tonight."

With a sharp _click_ Sherlock reached over and turned off the bedside lamp, throwing the room into darkness and cutting off John's retort in the process.

Xxx

"That's it, I can't take it anymore."

John heard the words from what seemed to be a great distance, but he didn't really comprehend them until he felt hands, rough and hard, pushing at him harshly.

"Wha'? Wha's happenin'?" he asked sleepily, blinking open his eyes blearily to see that the bedroom was still completely dark. It must have been the middle of the night.

"Out of the bed, John," he heard Sherlock's strident voice saying through the blackness, and he felt the hands push against him once more.

"Sherlock, I don't—"

"Out!" the other man shouted with a particularly rough shove.

"Wh-why?" John asked, disoriented, as he practically fell off of the mattress and stood, cold and confused, next to the bed that Sherlock had just pushed him out of.

"I cannot sleep with your constant cuddling!" Sherlock enlightened him. "And your snoring. And your turning." John felt a pillow slam against his body, and the thin flat sheet got thrown at him shortly afterwards. "Get out of my room."

"Are you—are you kicking me out of our bed?!" John asked, his mind still not wrapping itself around the situation.

"Yes," he heard Sherlock say shortly, and judging by the muffled sound of his voice, he was fairly certain the other man had already snuggled comfortably back into his pillow while John stood in the middle of their dark, cold room, perplexed and groggy.

"But—but…you can't kick me out! I sleep here!"

"There is another perfectly fine bedroom not being used upstairs," came Sherlock's reasonable answer. "Or you could sleep on the couch. I don't care where you go just as long as I can't hear you snore through my door."

"Sherlock—" John began to protest, but the other man cut him off rather unceremoniously.

"Unless you are about to give me a back rub, I suggest you leave. I need to get some sleep."

John stood, in stunned silence, for only a moment more before the chill of the room became too much for him and he turned finally to stomp out of Sherlock's bedroom, slamming the door in a snit behind him.

Xxx

It made John happy to know that Sherlock seemed to be doing all of the work, for a change.

The brunette man had told John the other day that he felt like he was running a baby-making factory that was in business 24/7, and, as the only employee, he was on the clock around the clock. John knew that the constant fatigue was coming from the fact that Sherlock's pregnant body was working harder at rest than it ever did when it was on the run, constructing a placenta and amniotic sac and even a bloody _baby_ for crying out loud, but Sherlock would not have any excuses for it.

John told him that the placenta was still not done growing, but that it shouldn't be much longer until the fatigue went away. Not too long into the second trimester, at the latest, but Sherlock seemed to think that his body should somehow be more resilient than other people's, and the fatigue and cramps did nothing but make him even more moody than he usually was.

John hoped his estimation of symptoms was correct—he didn't know how much more of this he could take. He was feeling sympathy-fatigue, running himself ragged as he tried to cater to Sherlock's every whim without a noise of discontent, and the results left him tired and overworked, even when he was just having a relaxing day with Sherlock.

Another thing that was beginning to catch the doctor's eye was Sherlock's wardrobe.

The consulting detective had taken to wearing his pajamas for the majority of the time that they were alone in the flat together. John suspected that this was because all of his regular trousers were beginning to fit a bit too tight, but Sherlock never made mention of it. But, for John, Sherlock's swelling abdomen could not be ignored. It was nothing drastic, just the beginnings of what looked like a cute little holiday pudge. John knew it couldn't be from the food—Sherlock still hardly ever ate anything—so that could only mean that it was from his growing appendix, and the baby inside.

But when Sherlock began to wear regular t-shirts instead of his usual, tailored, button-down dress shirts when they went out of the apartment for a case, John knew he was in a bad way. Sherlock was not one to go out dressed like a 'commoner', as he had so eloquently put it before in the past, and John knew that this was just another thing that would send the temperamental brunette into a huff with little or no prompting.

But John could do nothing more than stand by and wait for the inevitable Sherlock-ian hissy fit to pass, and hope he was still alive afterwards.

Xxx

A couple of weeks into Sherlock's second trimester, the brunette opened his eyes blearily one morning to find that it wasn't the vicious nausea that had woken him. As usual, John was in the kitchen making breakfast, and for the first time in what felt like months, Sherlock's stomach grumbled hungrily at the smells that were wafting in through his closed door.

He got out of bed of his own accord, feeling amazingly better than he could ever remember himself feeling in the past few months. And when he went to the bathroom to wash up, he was surprised and delighted to find that the first thing he wanted to do did not involve vomiting.

This was promising. Very promising indeed.

When he was finished in the bathroom, he went straight to the kitchen, stealing a piece of toast that John had set out in the middle of the table as the doctor finished up with the eggs and sausage. John didn't seem to hear him at first, but once Sherlock pulled a chair out at the table and sat in it, patiently waiting for breakfast to be served, the doctor turned around slowly, spatula in hand and eyes opened wide in disbelief.

"You're up."

It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement of incredulity.

"It would seem so, yes," Sherlock answered, snatching up another piece of toast and munching on it quietly.

"Okay," John said cautiously. "Feeling better, then?"

Sherlock thought about the answer to John's question as the doctor turned back to the frying pan on the stove, flipping the contents once more and then switching the burner off.

"Yeah," he finally answered, a relieved smile flitting across his face. "I guess you could say that."

The doctor served Sherlock and then himself, piling a heaping portion of eggs onto the brunette's plate, like he did every other morning.

But, unlike every other morning, he was not disappointed by Sherlock's appetite. The consulting detective attacked the food on his plate with a vigor that he had never put into eating before and tried to ignore the man sitting across the table from him, staring openly as he shoveled food into his mouth.

When he could take no more, he looked up at John with a deep frown. "What?" he snapped through a mouthful of sausage.

"N-nothing," John stammered, realizing he was staring and averting his eyes down to his own plate. "It's just…you're…eating."

Sherlock, not liking the fuss John was making, put down his fork rather forcefully. "I could not, if you would prefer."

"No, no!" John said quickly, his face flushing as he realized that he was turning the whole situation into a spectacle. "Please, continue. I'll—I'll stop."

The rest of the meal was spent with Sherlock trying hard to eat his remaining meal at a more human pace, and John looking at everything in the small kitchen except the consulting detective, afraid he would scare him off like some sort of wild, rabid animal.

Xxx

Sherlock knew it was going to be a good day when he decided to get dressed in regular clothes (and not stay in his pajamas for as long as he could) before he was even called about a case.

He was a little frustrated to find that his trousers, perfectly tailored to fit his slim hips, were a bit tighter than they used to be. Nothing too awful, just a slight annoyance as they pressed along his belly a little too firmly. His shirts, looser than his pants usually were, still fit him rather well, and he looked himself over in the mirror on the back of his door quickly before stepping out, noting that he didn't look too different from his usual self, and certainly not man-pregnant.

"Big day planned?" John asked as he finished up his morning tea while reading the paper in his chair, in the few minutes he had before he went off to the surgery.

"I thought I'd square away a few of the smaller cases," Sherlock answered, gathering some paperwork off of the desk and end tables. He had been avoiding what work he could over the past few weeks. He only ever went out to cases that Lestrade called him to, ignoring his personal work, and only then if the case was at least a 9.5.

But today, he felt well enough to actually get out of the flat, something he had despised doing ever since he had taken the Synathida.

"Oh, okay," John said, and there was something peculiar about his tone as he shuffled his paper back together and avoided eye contact with Sherlock.

Although Sherlock was a genius in his own right, and he could read people like a book—from top to bottom and back to front, without any real effort at all—he was still getting used to the intricate emotions that came about in an emotional relationship with another human being. He knew something was bothering John; his _"Oh, okay,"_ answer was clipped and the tone of his voice had lost all emotion, indicating that John was closing something off from Sherlock. But the brunette couldn't think of what it might be for the life of him.

"John, if you have something to say, just say it." More straight-forward than he would usually be, but he found that he was feeling too good at the moment to waste a second of it on trivial things, when he finally had the energy to go out and do some actual work.

John seemed to realize this, too, and he sighed, standing up from his chair and heading towards Sherlock to place a small kiss on the brunette's lips as he gathered his jacket and keys by the doorway.

"It's nothing, really," John said softly, "just…promise me you'll be careful out there from now on."

Sherlock took a moment to pull John into a tight hug, glad for the doctor's concern but even more glad that John wasn't making a bigger issue out of the situation.

"Don't worry, John," he said, releasing the shorter man. "I'm always careful."

Xxx

Sherlock had been right—his day had turned out splendidly. The nausea—which he had half-feared would come back at any moment all day long—had not returned, and he had managed to not only keep down his breakfast, but a small lunch as well, and he had gotten a fair amount of work done, too.

Yes, rather a good day.

So good, in fact, that he climbed the stairs to their flat in a hurry, taking them two at a time, and he walked in to find John tidying up his desk to make it more accessible now that Sherlock was up and about again. Sherlock stopped short in the doorway to the flat and stared at John thoughtfully, an estranged warmth growing in his gut that he had not felt for a long time before today.

It had first happened earlier that day, during an interview. There had been a soldier on leave at one of the houses he had visited; the boyfriend of the daughter of the client. Sherlock, of all people, had been surprised when he had taken one look at the young man—standing still and proud, just like John did—and felt the sleepy stirrings of an erection.

What was even more improbable was that it had happened _twice more_ throughout the entirety of the day. Once again before Sherlock left that particular client's house, and then later in the cab ride to the next case, as flashes of John in uniform burst into his mind spontaneously.

And now…

John was bending over Sherlock's desk, trying to organize a stack of papers and put them aside. His back was to Sherlock, and all the brunette man could see was John's round little bottom moving back and forth, and Sherlock could not stand it for another minute.

He must have made a noise in the back of this throat, because John suddenly spun around, caught off guard, but he smiled happily when he saw that it was Sherlock who was standing in the doorway.

"Welcome back. Have a good day?"

_Yes. No_. _Wait, what did John just ask?_

It was getting increasingly harder to think when the brunette man noticed that John was wearing one of Sherlock's favorite shirts on him. The red plaid button-down that was just so…_John_. And, to Sherlock's surprise, the top button was undone, uncharacteristic of John, who always went out in military-style dress; all buttons done up and not a wrinkle in sight.

_He must have had a bad day at the surgery_, Sherlock thought to himself, taking a quick scan of the living room to find—right there: a rather large bag of biscuits sitting next to an almost-empty teacup.

John usually waited until Sherlock was home before making the tea, and he never had biscuits in the middle of the afternoon, since he often took a late lunch from his job.

But Sherlock dismissed all of this information in a second, deeming it unimportant. What was important was the fact that he could see the sharp lines of John's collarbone through the opened neck of his shirt, and Sherlock had the most insane urge come over him to run his tongue over it.

"John, I seem to find myself rather…erotically charged today."

For a moment, John stared at him in confusion, a small frown beginning to form in his brow, before he comprehended Sherlock's words and the frown was replaced with a goofy little smile. "Sherlock, is that your way of saying that you're horny?" he asked, grinning.

"Yes?" Sherlock responded, not quite sure what he wanted to do about the sudden urges that were coming over him. He had wanted John before—of course he had, he wasn't _stupid_ (or blind), after all—but never with sort of…all-consuming urgency.

John, bless his heart, merely laughed out loud; a deep laugh full of relief and happiness. "Thank God!" he shouted. "Finally!"

Sherlock didn't even have to say another word. In an instant, John was closing the distance between the two men quickly, his stride purposeful and deadly.

And Sherlock stood in the doorway and waited to be taken.

Xxx

John could barely believe what he had just heard. After weeks—bloody _months_—of Sherlock not allowing the blonde man to touch him, finally—_FINALLY!_—John was going to have his chance.

He decided to take it before Sherlock could change his mind.

The doctor was over by the other man in the span of seconds, taking Sherlock in his arms and hugging him tightly, pressing their lips together in what was probably the messiest, most eager kiss the two had ever shared.

But it didn't seem to matter to either one.

Sherlock responded to John by kissing him eagerly back, opening his mouth so that John could taste him and—_God_ he had forgotten how good Sherlock tasted.

He steered them away from the door, towards their bedroom carefully, shoving the door closed with his foot so that he didn't have to take his hands away from Sherlock's body for a second. He couldn't have, anyways. He was too busy pulling off Sherlock's clothing in a mess of hands and arms and too much fabric.

When he had divested Sherlock of the man's shirt, he took a moment to be gentler with his trousers and pants, but soon enough John had the brunette man lying back on top of the covers of their bed, pale and panting and wonderfully naked beneath his hands.

He had always loved how Sherlock looked laid out for him this way. It was so deliciously erotic and John wasted no time in eating up every inch of Sherlock's body he could get to from that position.

As he kissed Sherlock's chest, his lips hovered over the other man's puffy nipples. The muscle underneath was slightly swollen and soft, as the pregnancy produced hormones that were trying to begin making milk, but would not succeed in their job in the body of a man. Sherlock's belly, which had always dipped down when Sherlock was laying on his back—from what John chastising-ly said was malnourishment—now ever so slightly bowled upwards, just barely standing above the rest of Sherlock's body as the man lay before John.

The blonde couldn't help himself; he dropped his head down to place soft kisses along Sherlock's abdomen, dipping into his belly button and going lower and lower until…

Sherlock gasped and bucked beneath him as John took the other man into his mouth. The brunette man was erect already, and John knew that he didn't have to spend long on foreplay. He was glad—although he wanted to enjoy this with Sherlock as much as he could, it had been too long since he had taken the man, and he was feeling just as needy as Sherlock.

He took his time licking lazy trails up and down Sherlock's cock, knowing that soon enough he would have what he had been wanting for months now. There was no need to rush when he was so close to the finish line at last.

His fingers made soft tracks along Sherlock's hip, pressing at the bone he felt there, and down the insides of his thighs, tickling along Sherlock's balls before slipping further down, between his soft cheeks and pressing the tip of his finger against the tight ring of muscle he found there.

Beneath him, Sherlock keened.

He prepared Sherlock gently, being sure not to hurt him. He knew it would take a little getting used to again (it _had_ been months since they had last had sex) but Sherlock didn't seem to be as worried about it as John was, growling frustratingly at John's languid movements and urging him on.

But John would not be rushed. He was enjoying being able to see Sherlock this way, laid out before him and practically glowing in his pregnancy and with the sweat of arousal. He couldn't believe how beautiful Sherlock was. How radiant and soft and—

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, pushing himself up against John's body, and the doctor lost all ability to put together thoughts. All he could think of suddenly was Sherlock beneath him, Sherlock around him, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock….

John entered the man without a word of warning, without a second thought. He pushed against the tight ring of muscle until he was completely sheathed in Sherlock's warmth, panting at the heat of it. He knew he wasn't going to last long, and Sherlock's erection between them—red and swollen and leaking precum steadily—told him that the brunette wouldn't be far behind him. He began to move, a gentle rocking motion that bordered on the frantic, but he used what little willpower he had left to reign himself in. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock.

But he had forgotten just how tight the other man was, how Sherlock's body seemed to open up just for him, and clench and close around John so perfectly, sending John over the edge, pulling him down into oblivion, making him come and come and come as if he needed everything John had to give him.

When he was done he pulled out of Sherlock quickly, who lay dazedly on the bed, still trying to catch his breath, and he bent to take Sherlock into his mouth again. He felt Sherlock's body—relaxed for the moment from John's orgasm—spasm and tighten under him as John sucked him, pulling him over the edge the same way Sherlock pulled him.

There was a grunt above him and he heard his name whispered between heavy breaths, and suddenly Sherlock's hands were on the back of his head and Sherlock's hips were bucking up into his mouth and John was taking all that Sherlock was giving him and swallowing every last drop.

They lay, panting, on top of one another for a few minutes, John's head resting on Sherlock's thigh and their legs and feet tangling around the sheet at the foot of the bed. When he had seemed to catch his breath enough, Sherlock propped himself up on the pillows, a goofy smile spreading across his face as he looked down at John.

"That…was brilliant," he told the doctor, still slightly winded. "Ready for another go?"

Xxx

The next few days in Baker Street were testament to the wonders of the second trimester of pregnancy.

Sherlock's nausea did not come back—thankfully—and his sex drive seemed to have returned with a vengeance—again, thankfully—and John couldn't remember a time in his life when he had ever been happier.

In fact, he couldn't be bothered to remember much of anything at all these days, as his boss so politely reminded him one morning at work, when she gave him his flight information for the medical conference he had told her weeks ago he would go on.

He tried to back out of it, but she said it was too short of a notice for her to find anyone else to go along, and she really had her hopes on learning more about the new heart medication that the government had just released.

Resigned and despondent, John told her that he would go.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair hopelessly. He did not relish the thought of telling Sherlock that he was going to have to leave for 3 days.

Xxx

True to form, when John told him about the medical conference, Sherlock pouted and moped and—surprising enough—threw things at John.

John didn't even know what exactly was so horrible about him going away that it required an evening of the silent treatment and a night on the couch, but he had heard about the terrifying and death-inspiring 'pregnancy mood swing' and he decided not to chance making the situation worse, so he took his punishment stoically and tried not to think about spending another 5 months walking on eggshells around Sherlock.

The next day, his partner was in rare form indeed, and John had been glad that it wasn't a weekend, so he didn't have to spend the whole day around a moody, self-vindicated Sherlock Holmes. They argued that morning about the jelly—of all ridiculous things—and when John came back after work, he was relieved to find that Sherlock had not returned home yet, and he went about making dinner in peace.

But the troubles from that morning did not want to stop at just jelly. No, they wanted to encompass all pleasant moments in John's life.

Sherlock came home just as John was setting the plates for dinner, and they ate in relative quiet as the two men tried their best to ignore each other from across the table.

Suddenly, the shrill sound of Sherlock pushing his plate away from himself to signify that he was done cracked apart the silence of the flat. John, his fork halfway to his mouth, glanced at the plate Sherlock had pushed out of his way and noticed a large amount of color still on the plate.

"Sherlock, you should eat the spinach," he said reprovingly, frowning at the other man. "It's good for you."

"No," Sherlock answered simply.

John's frown deepened at the childishness of his partner. "You hadn't been eating well during your first trimester, and you need to make up for it. Now, eat it!"

"I will not!" Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms and glaring at John through sea foam green eyes and furious brows.

"This is ridiculous—you're a grown man," John argued, slamming his own silverware down to make a point. "I shouldn't have to force feed you like you are a child!"

"Then don't," Sherlock answered simply.

John sighed, and the sound was not happy. "Sherlock, you can't live off a diet of cakes and jelly rolls."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked petulantly. "I thought you would be glad that I'm eating anything at all."

"I am, but, you need to eat _healthy_ foods," John debated, throwing his hands up in the air in desperation. "You need the nutrients from fruits and vegetables, and the protein from meats. At the rate you're going, you'll probably give birth to a jelly-filled, chocolate baby."

Sherlock huffed sullenly and John could tell that he was now just being difficult for difficult's sake. "You would still love him," he countered.

"I wouldn't get the chance to love him," John answered back scathingly. "Not if you _ate_ him."

It didn't surprise John at all that his snide comment landed him back on the couch and made him the proud recipient of another infamous Sherlock-silent treatment.

Xxx

"John, I miss your cock so much."

"Sherlock!"

John's fingers blindly searched for the volume button on the side of his phone as he pressed the cell closer to his ear, hoping no one in the quiet banquet room around him had heard his pregnant, hormonally horny boyfriend on the other end of the line.

"I wish you were fucking me right now."

"Where are you?" John asked, his voice cracking as he turned away from the group of doctors that were standing around him, waiting for him to finish his thoughts on the new cholesterol medication that was on the market now. "Are you at home?"

"I'm in bed. Wanking."

"Oh, God."

He quickly and bumbling-ly excused himself away from the group of men and hurriedly looked for the exit to the banquet room, exceedingly glad that he was staying in the hotel room where the convention was being held and that his room was only a few floors and doors above his head.

"I want your mouth on me, sucking me off."

"Sherlock, I—" he had never had phone sex before—never really been attached to anyone long enough to require it—and he didn't even know where to begin. "If I were there with you…tell me what you would want me to do to you."

He had made it onto his floor, which was thankfully seemingly deserted, and his shaking hand was fumbling with his blasted room key to no avail as he heard Sherlock's deep baritone voice begin speaking over the line.

"I would want you to get down on your knees in front of me," Sherlock told him and finally—_finally! _—John was able to pull the damned card out of the keyhole with a successful green light and he stumbled into his room, not bothering to turn on any of the lights. His only priority was juggling his cell phone as he fumbled with his belt buckle, tearing it open and tugging desperately at his zip.

"And I would want you to let me fuck your mouth while you touch yourself and I watch you."

"God, Sherlock," John breathed, falling backwards onto the hotel bed and grabbing himself roughly. He was already hard, and he didn't even bother trying to find lubricant—he didn't want to tear himself away from Sherlock's voice for one second.

"Put your fingers in your arse," he said into the phone, his cock twitching in his hand as he pictured Sherlock preparing himself, knuckle deep into his own tight hole. "Stretch yourself wide so that you can take all of me."

"John—" Sherlock's voice was ragged sounding on the other end, and John stroked himself furiously to the thought of Sherlock lying on their bed, opening himself up and finger fucking himself.

"I wish I was fucking you right now. I would fuck you so hard you would be begging me to stop."

"Yes, John. Yes, fuck me."

And with that softly spoken, slightly broken plea, John fell off of the edge, shooting out all over his hand and the trousers he hadn't even bothered to take off completely.

Xxx

Sherlock didn't know how he managed to go 17 weeks without sex with John. Because it had only been 2 days since the blonde doctor had left for his medical conference and Sherlock already felt like he couldn't function without a John-induced orgasm. Crime scenes and Scotland Yard police officers were feeling the brunt of it, mostly, but it was nothing compared to how high-strung and tense Sherlock was feeling.

He had called John at least 7 or 8 times each day, and at least one—sometimes two—of those times inevitably ended with them wanking off to the sound of each other's voice over the line. The rest of the time that they spent apart, Sherlock busied himself with sending inappropriate picture messages to the man, much to John's horror and Sherlock's increasing entertainment.

But, luckily, the day of John's homecoming came and Sherlock seemed to be in a particularly euphoric state all day long. He even went so far as to order take away and set it out on the kitchen table to be ready when John walked through their door.

At the sight, the blonde doctor smiled happily, and Sherlock felt his heart flutter.

Before John could even take a moment to sit down and relax, Sherlock was in front of him, grasping him tightly and searching out John's mouth with his own.

"Hello to you, too," John said with a chuckle when they parted, slightly out of breath. "Miss me much?" he teased.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "You have no idea," he confessed in a whisper. "You can't leave again. I don't think I would be able to function properly."

"I feel the same," John said with a smile. "Don't worry, I won't leave again."

"Promise?" Sherlock asked into the corner of John's mouth.

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

X.X.X

A/N: Next chapter, 'Perfect'.


	4. Perfect

Disclaimer: On top of the original disclaimer for the works of the band Marianas Trench and the pregnancy website, I do believe there is also a line or two from 'Friends' in here. I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. Sometimes when I was writing particular scenes all I could think of were episodes where Phoebe or Rachel were pregnant. Huge thanks to my beta Jenamy!

X.X.X

It had finally come.

It was here.

The day that Sherlock had been dreading…

The day when nothing in his wardrobe fit him anymore.

He had put off going out to buy new clothes for so long and now here he was…stuck with nothing to wear.

In his defense, it had seemed to happen overnight. Yesterday he had managed to squeeze into his loosest fitting trousers and today…today he felt the hot prickle of tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he pulled vainly at the two ends of fabric in his hands, trying futilely to make them meet over his distended abdomen.

"Sherlock, come on, we're going to be late—" John stopped in mid-sentence as he walked into their bedroom and saw the brunette man, red-eyed and frowning, tugging at his trousers. "Wha-?"

And suddenly Sherlock let out a great big huff of annoyance, and a profanity he only said in the midst of a passionate round of love-making slipped past his lips.

"They won't bloody fit!" he yelled out in frustration.

"Okay, it's okay, calm down," John said soothingly, in what Sherlock had taken to calling his 'wounded animal handling' voice. John had picked up the tone over the past few weeks, when the mood swings had really begun to kick in.

"No, it's not okay, John!" Sherlock continued, still shouting. "I look like I've swallowed a watermelon and I can't fit my fat arse into any of my clothes! What the bloody hell am I supposed to do, go out in my pajama bottoms?!" He stomped over to his wardrobe and began rifling through it, tossing out anything that would not fit him anymore.

"Too small, too small, haven't been able to get into that one in weeks…."

"Sherlock," John chastised, his tone still very, very nonjudgmental. "It's not that bad—you definitely won't have to go out in your pajama bottoms, at least. Look, come here."

The blonde man reached out to him gently, grabbing hold of his shoulder and pulling Sherlock out of the bedroom and into their kitchen where he shuffled through their junk drawer for a moment before emerging with a large, thick rubber band.

"See, we'll just slip this into here," John said, putting one end of the rubber band through the button hole in Sherlock's trousers and passing the other end of the band through the piece that was hanging on the outside, making a hangman's knot. He then proceeded to stretch the rubber band across Sherlock's stomach and loop the opposite end around the button of Sherlock's trousers.

It was not the most eye-appealing of wardrobe fixes—and he most certainly would not be able to tuck his shirt into the waistband of his trousers—but at least his bottoms would stay up.

"After we meet with Lestrade we can go shopping for clothes, and maybe some of the other things that we need. We haven't really bought anything for the flat yet," John offered.

When they left their flat, twenty minutes later, Sherlock was in a much better mood than he had been in before.

Xxx

"What the bloody hell's taken you so long, then?" Lestrade complained as John and Sherlock met up with him and the whole of the Scotland Yard forensics team in the middle of a vacant lot. "Decided to have a quick shag before you left your flat?"

John simply rolled his eyes and ignored the detective inspector—as usual—but, to his surprise, he heard Sherlock's deep baritone voice answer Lestrade rather dismissively.

"No. I couldn't find anything to wear that would fit."

"Sherlock." John's tone was low and warning, telling the brunette beside him that he was dangerously close to venturing into a topic that he didn't think the consulting detective would like. He knew that Sherlock didn't always understand how certain things that he said effected a conversation and required curious follow-up questions to be asked, and John knew this was one of them.

He was, of course, ignored.

"You know," Lestrade began, looking over the tall—and no longer slim—consulting detective curiously. "I wasn't going to say anything, but…you do look like you've been gaining a fair bit of weight. I didn't think John was that good of a cook, judging from the couple of meals he made me while he was staying at my place when you two split—"

"Lestrade!" John's voice was louder now, but the tone had gone more menacing. He wasn't liking where any part of this conversation was heading. He could see it all playing out in his head, like a train wreck. Someone was going to end up getting very upset, and he was fairly certain it was going to be himself.

"I'm not getting fat, you idiot," Sherlock answered a bit too loudly, obviously more than a little irritated by Lestrade's last comment. "I'm creating a Sherlock Jr. and making the world a better place for doing so."

"_Sherlock!_" This time John shouted, not caring who heard him. Most of the people around the crime scene had already been inching their way closer, intrigued—as usual—by the running commentary Sherlock always provided at crime scenes.

_Too bad this is more of a personal matter_, John thought to himself, eyes shutting in horror as everyone around them froze and grew silent almost instantaneously.

After a dreadful moment of silence that didn't seem to bother Sherlock at all, Lestrade was the first to speak, his tone a bit confused and the look on his face slightly dazed.

"You're joking, right?"

"Joking?" Sherlock repeated, thrown off by Lestrade's poor vocabulary. "Why would I make a joke like that? It wasn't even funny."

"Really?" a new voice suddenly called out, and John didn't even bother to hold back the groan that escaped his throat when he turned around and saw Donovan staring at the two of them, Anderson right beside her, as usual.

"This freak of nature, procreating?" she said, pointing at Sherlock with a look of disgust. "Who would be insane enough to let him do that?"

Sherlock gave her a particularly sharp-looking sneer. "Well, unlike you, I don't have to beg someone to sleep with me—I'm sure there are lots of people out there who wouldn't mind propagating with me."

Donovan was just about to retort when someone else interrupted. Lestrade, still looking as though he were slightly in shock.

"John…is it…yours?"

"What do you mean 'is it John's'?" Sherlock asked, offended. "Of course it's John's! What do you take me for? Some sort of trollop?"

And suddenly, John felt like he couldn't take one more second of it.

"Okay, that's it. Everybody, just—_quiet_! Sherlock, you, too! Just…calm down!" he shouted out, startling a number of the group of onlookers who didn't think John ever lost his composure. How very wrong they were. "I know this is a lot to take in, but let's just have a minute, yeah?"

Silence settled onto the group as John stared them down, and even Sherlock didn't make another sound.

"Okay, that's better," John said with a relieved sigh after a moment or two of quiet. "This may be difficult to comprehend, but it's true," he told everyone around them, angry that it had to come to this in the first place. "Sherlock is…pregnant." He stumbled over the word because it was still seemed so very foreign to have those three words strung together. "He took the Synathida a little over 5 months ago, and he is 16 weeks along. And, yes, Lestrade," he turned around to look at all of the other people who were around them, eyes wide and faces vacant and uncomprehending, "and everyone else who's wondering, because I know you all are—we are having this baby together and we are very bloody happy about it so everyone just needs to piss off!"

No one said anything for a long moment, staring at the blonde doctor in something akin to disbelief.

Finally, another voice broke the silence, awkward but very welcome. "Well, you heard the man," Lestrade said. "Go on and piss off!"

And with that informal dismissal most of the squad dispersed, going off to gossip in quiet whispers about what had just transpired. When most of the people had left, John looked around to see that only Donovan, Anderson, and Lestrade were still by them.

"Well, I guess that answers the question of who tops, aye boys?" Lestrade said with a small, uncomfortable chuckle. "Pay up, you prats!"

John watched incredulously as Anderson rifled through his trouser pockets and handed a handful of pounds to Donovan, and one of the other blokes who was still relatively close by paid Lestrade.

"Greg!" John said, sounding affronted.

"What?" the detective inspector asked with a small shrug. "I wasn't about to miss out on some easy cash."

"What do you mean, 'easy'?" Sherlock suddenly spoke up, offended.

"Oh, like it could possibly have been the other way around," Lestrade answered. "Sherlock loves being the center of attention too much to top."

John cringed at the fact that a very private part of his life was apparently the workplace gossip. He didn't rightly know how he was ever going to show his face at Scotland Yard again. Perhaps they could move away, far from colleagues and strangers who knew what went on in their bedrooms.

"Maybe you should just fill us in on what we are doing out here, and we can all get back to our jobs," John finally instructed, tired of dealing with the mess of a situation already.

"Oh, that," Lestrade answered, raising a hand to scratch the back of his head embarrassedly. "Yeah. Well, we caught a missing person's case. Teenage girl, history of drug abuse, father recently remarried. We had the dogs after her, but they lost the trail here." He shuffled through the notes he had taken for the case in his small notepad. "It's a local hang out for other secondary school kids, so there are lots of footprints and tire tracks. It's a huge mess; I don't even know where to have my team begin."

John nodded his head, glad to have something else to occupy his thoughts, and began to take a look around the scene. It had rained recently, and so there were hundreds of footprints still more or less perfectly preserved in the mud and gunk of the lot. John braced himself for a long afternoon of digging through evidence when Sherlock's voice cut through the stillness of the air around them.

"Really, Lestrade? You made me get out of the flat for this?" He sounded actually annoyed, and John remembered the fit Sherlock had thrown earlier that day about his wardrobe. No doubt he _was_ annoyed, well and truly.

"What?" the detective inspector asked, looking around him. "It's a legitimate case for you, Sherlock. Right up your alley."

"She's not even missing!" Sherlock argued, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation.

"What do you mean 'she's not even missing'?" Lestrade repeated, frowning. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock sighed and brought a hand up to his forehead, as if it pained him greatly to be around this much stupid. "You can tell," he began, voice low and slow—the tone was reminiscent of the kind that parents used to explain adult-things to particularly dense children, "by the history you just gave me of her: teenage girl, upset that her father has recently remarried, goes off to get high and show him what she thinks of her new 'mum'." He ticked the marks off on his fingers, holding his hand up in front of Lestrade's face so that the detective inspector couldn't miss a beat.

Lestrade pushed Sherlock's hand away harshly. "But, there was a ransom note," he countered.

Sherlock did nothing more than roll his eyes in exasperation. "Teenagers have to get the money to score somehow, Lestrade. If they were busy working, like productive members of society, they wouldn't be shooting their brains up, now would they?"

"I guess not everyone is lucky enough to have a trust fund to dip into to feed their habit, eh, Sherlock?" Donovan came up and asked, her tone poisonous.

Sherlock didn't rise to her bait. "It's not my fault that I do everything better than everyone else, Donovan," he said dismissively. "Don't be jealous—it's not a pretty color on you." He turned back to Lestrade. "Look closer at the note and don't waste my time next go 'round, Detective Inspector. It's terribly inconvenient for me."

Rolling his eyes, John couldn't help but interject, "You were sitting at home balancing teacups on your stomach when you got the text."

"Yes, exactly," Sherlock responded, beginning to walk back the way he had come, out of the lot. John Lestrade and Donovan followed behind him, trying to keep up with his larger stride. "My day was already filled to the brim with meaningless dribble. But at least that dribble I could do in my pants."

Lestrade sighed, defeated again. "All right, you heard him, boys," he called to the rest of the forensics team. "Back to the Yard and have another go at the ransom note."

Everyone began packing their things up except Donovan, who immediately marched up to Lestrade, hair wild from the wind and eyes wide in disbelief. "Greg, you can't be serious!" she shouted out. "What if he's wrong?! You know that the first 36 hours are the most important in kidnappings. We could be wasting valuable time—"

"You're not," Sherlock interrupted her dispassionately, still walking away. John began to give his usual goodbye to everyone, an apologetic look and small shrug, as Sherlock blew them all off.

"Wait, Sherlock!" Lestrade called out, running after the tall man. "Why don't you come back to the Yard with us and have a look at the rest of the files, just in case?"

"Not interested," Sherlock answered dismissively.

Beside him, John sighed in exasperation. "Come on, Sherlock, we're already out. What could it hurt?"

Surprisingly, the consulting detective slowed his pace, and gave John a long-suffering look, as if putting up with the doctor's good will towards humanity was the strangest habit John could have.

"A little girl _is_ missing," John continued, playing his hand harder now. "You could probably find her faster than anyone else."

At that, Sherlock stopped walking away. "Yes, I could, couldn't I?" he said, and John had to hide another roll of his eyes or the jig would be up.

Catching back up to them, Lestrade looked happy that Sherlock was still on the case, and Donovan looked annoyed.

"Tell me something," the woman asked, crossing her arms and pursing her lips, as if the mere thought of spending any more time with Sherlock was leaving a bad taste in her mouth. "Are you sure the doctors will even be able to deliver something that is half human and half pure evil?"

John knew it was awful, but he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.

"I'm sure it will be fine," Sherlock retorted, not missing a beat. "Someone delivered you all those years ago. Think of the advances in technology that have probably come about in the 50 years since that's happened."

"Children," Lestrade said, his tone warning. "That's enough. Let's just get back to the Yard and get this all sorted out, shall we?"

Xxx

The case really did end up being as cut and dry as Sherlock had said it was.

No surprise there.

Just a wasted half of an afternoon, and a particularly difficult-to-deal-with Sherlock.

John was drained from just a few hours of being on a proper case with the consulting detective again. They hadn't been at it for a while now, what with Sherlock having been so sick the past couple of months.

He missed the feeling of solving the case, sure, but he was coming to realize that a pregnant, achy, hungry Sherlock was not an evil that should be released on the world.

Just as they were finally gathering up their stuff to leave, Lestrade came over to John, pulling him away from the other officers. Sherlock was busy having a row with Anderson about the ink that had been used to print the ransom note, and didn't notice when the detective inspector had snatched John up from right in front of him.

When they were across the room, barely able to hear Sherlock and Anderson shouting expletives at each other, Lestrade turned to John, his brow furrowed and the set of his mouth serious.

"John," he started, hands making small, nervous gestures as he didn't know where to put them. "Are you…is this what you really want?"

John frowned back at the detective inspector, unsure of what Greg was asking him for a moment. "Wha—?"

"With Sherlock, I mean," Lestrade clarified.

"Of course it is, Greg," John answered without a second thought. The frown didn't ease, though, it only deepened some more as he tried to figure out what Lestrade was playing at.

"No, but, _really_?" Greg repeated, a little more desperate now. "You had wanted him to do this? To take that pill and get…." He trailed off awkwardly. "It just seems a little…I don't know, reckless, don't you think?" he finished.

"Well there really isn't much we can do about it now," John answered diplomatically, with a shrug of his shoulders. "What's gotten into you, Greg? I thought you would be happy for us."

"I—I am," the detective inspector said, and John didn't have to have Sherlock's deductive reasoning skills to tell that the man was lying. "It's just, well…."

The man drifted off into silence and John waited patiently for him to continue, until he couldn't wait anymore. "Well, what?"

"It just seems," Lestrade began, and his tone was careful and concise, and John knew that he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear, "like Sherlock has always…had you wrapped around his finger. You spend every single day working around his whims and his fancies. I've never thought it was fair to you, John. I've always thought that you deserved better than that."

John didn't know what to say. It was strange to have someone be concerned of his emotions—he was so used to Sherlock pushing them aside just like he pushed aside everything else that did not pertain to himself.

Not to say that Sherlock was a horrible person. No, of course not. He loved John and was always, in a Sherlock-kind of way, nice to him. And he—sort of—acquiesced to John every once in a while, so it wasn't always constantly about the other man.

But other than that, Sherlock did have a special way of always taking the spotlight, and focusing everything—no matter how small or insignificant—on himself. Lestrade was right in a way.

And it was nice to know that someone was on his side.

"Greg, I—"

"I know you love him, John," the other man said hurriedly, not looking John in the eye anymore. "But you and I are probably the only people who know what he is really like. I just…I just don't want you to end up getting hurt. You…you don't deserve that. You're far too nice and caring."

John couldn't be a hundred percent sure, but he was getting the funny sensation that Lestrade was meaning more than he was actually saying.

The detective inspector reached a hand out to softly run his fingertips through John's hair. "You can always talk to me, you know. If you need to."

Yes, definitely meaning more than he was saying.

Stunned at the other man's forwardness, John didn't know what to say. He stood there for a moment, after Lestrade's hand had dropped back down to his side, and simply stared at the other man. Thankfully he was saved from having to respond by Sherlock's voice, close to them, calling out, "Ready, John?"

John cleared his throat awkwardly, and threw Lestrade a small, strained smile that he hoped was more comfortable-looking than it felt on his lips, and headed back over to where Sherlock was waiting for him. "Thanks, Greg," he said as he passed by the man. "I really appreciate that."

And he was surprised to find that he meant it.

When he reached Sherlock, he was even more surprised when the brunette man reached out to him, running his fingers through his hair just as Lestrade had done not a moment ago.

Sherlock was never really one for public displays of affection, and certainly not in Scotland Yard or Bart's, where work was work and the consulting detective was very good at severing personal feelings from the job. But, here he was, tousling John's short hair in front of at least a handful of other detectives and police officers, and letting his long fingers run down the side of John's face as his large hand fell away.

"Er, yeah," John managed to squeak out, when he couldn't stand the awkward silence that had settled on the room anymore. "Ready to go."

"Good. I believe we have some shopping to do."

Xxx

There was a shop a couple of blocks over from their flat, _Le Petite Boutique_, which specialized in upscale baby merchandise. John could tell from the displays in the window that he would never be able to afford even a single burp cloth from a place like that, and he doubted Sherlock would be able to either, judging by all the work that he had missed during his first trimester as he had stayed in bed, shriveling into himself due to the nausea.

But the other man didn't even pause for a moment outside of the door to the boutique. When he pulled the door open, a bell chimed softly in the back of the store, and as John entered after him the smell of lavender and chamomile washed over him soothingly.

Once inside, he quickly stopped short, as it dawned on him that he had never been into a store like this before. He wandered slowly over to a display rack and noted that he didn't know what half of the things on the little shelves were.

He tried not to let the panic sink in.

A small bunch of stuffed animals caught his eyes, surrounded by other toys, and he sighed in relief, walking over to an area of the store that he felt much more comfortable in. But when he picked up a small teddy bear and looked at the price tag, the panic came back tenfold.

_Of course Sherlock would want to come to a place like this_, John thought to himself as he hurriedly placed the teddy bear back on the shelf, afraid that he was going to get charged for even looking at it. Just as he was backing away from the aisle, a woman came up to him, smiling prettily and looking helpful.

"Hello, sir. Welcome to _Le Petite Boutique_," she said happily. John noticed a name tag above her right breast and his eyes trailed appreciatively along the unbuttoned top of her shirt for a moment. "My name is Bridget. Can I help you find anything?"

"No, no. I was just…browsing," he said politely, smiling at her.

She smiled back rather readily. "Oh, okay. Wanting to pick out a gift for your wife?" she asked casually.

"No. No, I don't have a wife."

"Oh, sorry," she apologized, smile still in place and getting wider. "Girlfriend, then."

"Nope," John shook his head. "No girlfriend."

"Good. I mean…that's nice." She laughed nervously and bit her lip coyly. "Are you looking for something for a friend, then?"

"He is looking for something for his partner," Sherlock's voice cut through the air between them, making John jump guiltily. "A very testy, pregnant man who is not in the mood to deal with chasing away easy shop girls."

"Oh, Sherlock," John said nervously, taking a step away from the shop girl discreetly. "There you are. Thought I had lost you."

Sherlock 'hmm'ed in response, eyeing John menacingly.

"Oh, you're, er," Bridget said, nervously. And then it clicked. "Oh! _You're_ pregnant? Well, it's not very often we get a bloke in here, in your condition."

"Is that a problem?" Sherlock asked, his tone deadly.

"No!" Bridget exclaimed, a happy smile spreading on her face. "Of course not! _Le Petite Boutique_ is more than happy to help you prepare for your little bundle of joy! What exactly were you looking for? Something specific or…?"

"Everything," Sherlock answered sharply. "We haven't got a thing for the flat yet."

Bridget smiled again, and John noticed that she did it rather easily. "Okay, well, you'll be wanting to start off with a crib for the nursery. And a changing station. Maybe a nice mobile to hang up."

And Bridget was off like a dash, pulling Sherlock to every corner of the shop to show him merchandise and tell him about the many things they would be needing for the baby.

John could do nothing but sigh tiredly and follow behind them, cursing ever coming up with the idea to go shopping in the first place.

Xxx

Hours later, they finally managed to claw their way out of the boutique and drag themselves back towards their flat.

Sherlock was worn out, and there was a twinge in his lower back that he could not shake. Shopping had been more of a chore than he had originally thought it would be. There were so many things to consider when buying the things a baby would need—size, safety, quality, color, brand, shape. He had gone over the schematics and measurements and manufacturer histories and safety codes of each piece of furniture that Bridget had shown them, and the decision of which crib to buy had been bordering on life or death.

John had finally snapped and taken the decision out of his hands entirely, choosing for them.

And then Sherlock had, of course, decided to go with another one.

But now, with bags full of menswear from the shop next to the boutique, and the promise of a rush delivery on the crib to their flat—with everything else following a few days later (Sherlock had no need for the other stuff at this point, really)—the two men were finally able to breathe a little easier, knowing that this day was almost over.

It had been harder for Sherlock to adjust to the pregnancy than he had thought it would be. Now that his every waking moment was not being spent curling into a ball in bed or throwing up in the bathroom, he had more time to think about what he had done to himself, and his life.

John seemed happy, for the most part. Of course things like shopping, Sherlock's constant complaining, and the late-night cravings seemed to be starting to annoy the doctor, but he always took everything in stride. The awful words John had said to him after he had first found out about the pregnancy were nothing more than a memory now, not hinted at or acknowledged after that day.

And, for the most part, Sherlock was happy, as well.

Except….

Sometimes Sherlock felt like he was barely there at all. He felt like the fetus in his abdomen was taking over every aspect of his life—a tiny little tyrant who was never satisfied and who wanted more, always more.

More than Sherlock felt he could give sometimes.

It told him when to eat, when to urinate, when he could sleep, even when he could sit or not. What little solace he was able to find came in the form of sugar-y, jelly filled biscuits that he had to sneak away from John to eat, because the doctor was limiting his intake of sweets and pushing more and more fruits and vegetables on him.

Even now, after their long day at Scotland Yard and their tiring shopping expedition, John was taking them to a vegan restaurant for lunch.

"I don't want to eat weeds, John."

"It's not weeds, Sherlock, and if I could get you to remember to take all of your vitamins, I wouldn't have to keep shoving vegetables and fruits down your throat."

He smiled down at John, walking beside him. The doctor was panting slightly, since he was carrying all of Sherlock's bags and trying to keep up with the brunette's larger stride. His stomach grumbled hungrily and he had a sudden craving for the kinds of things he knew they would not sell at a vegan restaurant. It was okay, though. He knew John would cave to his cravings after lunch.

As long as Sherlock cleaned off his plate like a good boy.

Xxx

When they arrived back at Baker St, it was to find that _Le Petite Boutique_ had already delivered the crib that Sherlock had put the rush order on. It was sitting just inside the door, by the foot of the stairs.

Sherlock happily sat in his chair in their flat, staring out their door and at the steps, as John struggled to bring the heavy box up the staircase.

"It's okay, don't bother helping," he huffed as he tried to push the box up the last few feet and through the door to their flat.

"I couldn't possibly, John," Sherlock said, his tone chipper. "You wouldn't want me to hurt myself, now would you?"

"Right, of course not," John groaned, shoving hard at the box from behind and stumbling as it leveled out on the landing and slid easily through the door.

The doctor sighed in relief, standing up straight with a whimper and rubbing at his shoulder, moving the joint up and down to loosen the stiffening muscles.

"Up top, John," Sherlock sing-songed with a devious smile.

"What?"

"It needs to go up one more." He pointed to the ceiling, indicating John's room, and the doctor groaned once more, flipping Sherlock off as the brunette man sat in his comfortable little chair and laughed.

Xxx

It was a mess.

Nothing seemed to go together and he could swear that pieces were missing.

"Why don't you just look at the directions," John suggested innocently.

"I don't _need_ directions!" Sherlock argued loudly. "It should be simple enough; any moron should be able to do it."

The unsaid _'Well, then, why can't you?'_ hung in the air between them.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, bitter.

"I didn't say anything," John said with a smug smile.

"You're thinking. It's throwing me off." He tried to jam two pieces of wood together, but the pegs wouldn't quite fit.

"Yeah," John said, rummaging through the other parts of the crib that littered the floor. "That's what's doing it. My _thinking_."

Sherlock huffed as he tried to push the screw through what must have been the sidebar of the crib with the flathead screwdriver, but it wouldn't secure into the edge.

He threw it down in exasperation and hunted through the rest of the crib, in bits and pieces on the floor of John's room all around him. "This is _ridiculous_!" he shouted out, at his wit's end. He had been trying to put together this blasted piece of furniture for hours now and had gotten nowhere with it.

He was beginning to feel like an utter failure, an idiot, a complete _maniac_. How had he possibly thought that he could go through with having a baby? He couldn't even put together a bloody crib set! The box said 'some assembly required', not 'you have to have a fucking degree in rocket science', and he couldn't even accomplish that.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock took a deep, calming breath.

Panicking would get him nowhere, he knew. He heard John on the other side of the room, working on a different part of the crib, oblivious to Sherlock's small, sudden anxiety attack.

The brunette man let out a last, desperate sigh and placed his hand carefully over his swollen stomach, trying to feel what lay underneath his fingers through the layers of clothing, skin and organs. _I just wish you could have seen me when it all used to come so easy,_ he thought to the fetus. At this rate, his child was going to be born thinking he was some sort of bumbling buffoon who couldn't even put two planks of wood together to make a basic structure.

Across the room, John tried to hammer one of the bars into the other with a thicker piece of wood, but only managed to crush his finger between them in the process, dropping all the pieces with a loud clatter and a curse.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. God help the two of them when the baby actually came. They wouldn't even know which end was up.

"What's all the ruckus about, boys?" they heard from the stairway up to John's room. Mrs. Hudson soon appeared, climbing the steps in a rush and frowning. "Not putting anymore holes in my walls, I hope. You still owe me from the last set you made."

"No, Mrs. Hudson, no holes this time," John answered her, looking around the room at the mess the two of them had made. "We're just…doing a bit of rearranging in my old bedroom, that's all."

"Rearranging?" the landlady asked, interested now that she knew they weren't damaging anything that belonged to her. She carefully stepped over the planks of wood and screws on the floor and looked towards the box that the mess had come from. "What for, then?"

"Well," John said, and Sherlock stared at him out of the corner of his eye, noting that a red tint was growing on the tips of John's ears and the centers of his cheeks. He looked charmingly nervous and Sherlock lost himself for a moment in the sheer wonder of the scene playing out before him: the man he loved was telling the woman who had been like a mother to him that they were going to have a baby together.

He had not anticipated the level of emotion that was being brought about by this simple fact. He had not felt this way when he had told Lestrade earlier that day. That had been more clinical and practical—like what he imagined pregnant women felt like when they told their bosses. But this….

This was something…more sentimental.

_Interesting_, he thought to himself. _Another note to make in my data._

"Ah, well, see…" John was stuttering now, and Sherlock didn't think there had ever been a cuter sight.

"We've gone and made you a grandmother, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interjected, deciding to save John from the situation, much as he didn't want to.

But the grateful look John sent his way and the tear-filled shriek that flew from Mrs. Hudson's mouth was more than enough to make up for it.

She grabbed at the two men; standing on the tips of her toes and reaching up to hook both arms around each of their necks. "Oh, dearies! I knew you would end up with a family of your own one day!" she said happily, giving each of them a kiss on their cheeks. "I knew it the moment John moved in with you, Sherlock. You both said you were just flatmates, but I knew better!" She released them with a laugh, her eyes shiny with tears as she took a step back and looked at them. "Parents, can you believe it?" she said to no one in particular.

Sherlock gave a small chuckle and continued to dig bits of furniture out of the box.

"I can't believe I'm going to be a Nana," Mrs. Hudson continued, milling about the room now and no doubt coming up with her own ideas for the nursery. "But, really, Sherlock, a child out of wedlock? What will the neighbors say? You're always so indecent," she teased, smiling at the two men who were both grinning like idiots.

It felt nice—normal—to have this sort of reaction to the news. There weren't many people Sherlock wanted to personally tell, but Mrs. Hudson more than made up for the way Scotland Yard had handled the information.

"Well, I suppose you're wanting to be left alone, you two," Mrs. Hudson said, after a moment. "It's a special time for parents, setting up the nursery; I'll leave you to it." She walked to the bedroom door but turned around before she exited, giving them both a stern look. "But don't think I'll be babysitting every weekend or up at all hours of the night with the wee one. I'm your landlady, after all, not your housekeeper."

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," they both said in unison, and said landlady gave them a smile and blew them a kiss before turning around and leaving them alone.

Xxx

The dreams began that night. With the pregnancy fatigue abating and his abdomen growing more and more each day, Sherlock was beginning to wake up several times during the night to deal with heartburn, leg cramps, backaches or the urgent need to urinate. He knew that waking during an REM cycle made one more likely to remember their dreams, and he almost wished that it didn't. He had never put much thought into his dreams when they lingered in bits and pieces after he had woken, but the pregnancy was beginning to take over his subconscious mind much the same as it was his waking life.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they had told everyone about the news today. Or maybe it was the fact that they had spent an exorbitant amount of money on clothing and furniture and toys and now this was feeling far more real than it ever had in the past.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock's subconscious was having a field day, and he wasn't liking it one bit.

He woke during the middle of the night, needing to use the loo, and the dream that he had been having kept replaying itself over and over in his head. When he stumbled back into the bed after he had washed up, he couldn't go back to sleep for thinking about it. He tossed and turned until he eventually woke John up, who grumbled sleepily about Sherlock stealing all of the covers.

"John? John, are you up?"

"No."

"Yes you are."

"I'm really not."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

The doctor sighed in the dark beside him and he felt John roll over onto his back. "What is it, then? Wanting a bowl of pistachio ice cream? I don't think there's any left from last night. And if you think there's any way I'm getting out of bed and going down to the store at this time of night, you're daft."

"No, John, it's not that," he snapped annoyed, and slightly hurt that—if it _had_ been that—he would have had to go without. "I just…"

"What?" John pushed, his disconnected voice drifting through the darkness between them.

"I had a dream," Sherlock finally answered.

"Oh." John sounded almost relieved that that was all. "Oh," he repeated. "What about?"

It was so ridiculous that Sherlock didn't even want to say it out loud. But, silly as it had been, he couldn't seem to dismiss it. And he _wanted_ to tell John about it, as if talking about it might make it easier to understand.

"Well," he began, slightly uncomfortable. "I had…given birth…" he said slowly, and then stopped.

"That's nice," John said, when Sherlock didn't continue for a moment. "What did the baby look like, then? All slimy and alien-like? You know that's what they look like when they first come out. It shouldn't bother you too much."

"No," Sherlock said into the dark. "It was…a porcupine," he finally admitted, his voice shaking slightly against his will, and he was glad that John could not see him. "I gave birth to a porcupine."

Next to him, John was silent for a moment. "A porcupine?" he finally asked, incredulously. There was something in the tone of his voice, too, something that Sherlock thought sounded suspiciously like….

Before he had even finished his thought John burst out laughing.

"It's not funny, John!" Sherlock yelled out, moving to hit at the man beside him but missing in the dark. "I was covered in blood and quills and then, when the nurses handed it to me, it tried to bite me!"

John howled even louder.

"John, it was a bloody porcupine! What if…what if it comes true? What if I end up giving birth to some sort of…mutant or something? I mean, there's no telling what sort of side effects the Synathida has on the fetus, or what my immune system will do to it to ensure that the baby doesn't harm my body! I could be carrying around some sort of transmuted human or a—"

"A porcupine?" John cut him off, unable to control the giggles that still slipped past his throat.

"John, I'm being completely seri—"

"Sherlock, calm down," John interrupted, exasperated. If Sherlock could see him, he was sure that the doctor would be rolling his eyes at him. "It was just a dream, that's all. Lots of pregnant women say that they have all sorts of barmy dreams before they give birth. It's just your mind's way of dealing with all the emotions you're having."

"But, I—"

"Sherlock, you're panicking. You're just scared that we've told everyone now and that this is suddenly becoming very, very real. It's perfectly normal."

He was surprised that John, for once, was the one who was reading Sherlock like a book, and hitting every point soundly on the nose.

Through the blackness of the bedroom, he felt John's arms wrap around him gently, hugging him close to the doctor's warm body.

"You don't have to be scared, Sherlock," John whispered into the crook of Sherlock's neck, and his warm breath sent shivers down the brunette's spine, stirring his groin. "I'm sure our baby will be born perfectly healthy and utterly adorable. How could it not, with you as its father?"

He leaned over and kissed Sherlock then, deeply, and Sherlock felt John's hands drifting down to his lower abdomen, caressing him softly.

John's lips followed his hands, drifting lower and lower, and placing small, wet kisses along all the skin he exposed as he made a trail downwards, pulling down Sherlock's pajama bottoms. "It will be strong," he kissed Sherlock's chest, "and healthy," he kissed Sherlock's distended belly, "and smart," he kissed Sherlock's hip bone, "and a complete handful—just like you." He took Sherlock's length into his hot mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip wetly. "Perfect," he finished, releasing Sherlock's cock.

"John," Sherlock choked out, his body suddenly on fire from the other man's touches. He had to have more, he had to have John, had to be filled…

"I want you."

John let out a moan, and Sherlock felt him pulling down his own pajama bottoms in the darkness of the room. When he was done, he took Sherlock's off the rest of the way as well, attacking the man's cock once more, and Sherlock had to stifle a gasp as John's mouth worked on him.

He had become so sensitive ever since he had gotten over the morning sickness. Every lick, every nip, every touch, every breath…he felt it all. It drove him wild. He couldn't believe how much better sex with John felt while he was pregnant, like the world stopped rotating and the universe stopped spinning and all he could feel was John's fingers entering him, stretching him, pulling him apart and putting him back together again.

"On your knees," John told him, voice harsh with arousal, and Sherlock could do nothing but comply, didn't want to do anything else, never wanted to do anything but what John told him to do. He would give John anything he wanted, as long as he rewarded Sherlock, gave Sherlock what he so desperately wanted, needed, ached for…

He wasn't as flexible as he used to be, but John didn't seem to mind at all. The doctor's indulgent hands were on his hips and thighs, helping him move into the position John wanted him in, and when Sherlock was there, arms trembling as they held himself up on the soft mattress of the bed, he gasped in pleasure when he felt John's tongue on his tight ring of muscle, pushing against the small bud wetly.

"John," he breathed, face falling into the pillows, and only then did he let loose a sob of want. "Please. I need it."

"You'll get it, love," John whispered, and Sherlock felt the words against his perineum in a hot puff of breath.

His lungs pulled in large quantities of air, but he couldn't seem to breathe properly. He was gasping, and his hands were shaking as they tightened around the sheets, and suddenly he felt the very tip of John at his entrance, and he couldn't take it any longer.

He pushed back onto John, impaling himself with a sigh and pulling a deep groan from the man behind him.

"Yes," he said. "Yes." This was what he needed. John's skin was burning up behind him, he could feel it on the backs of his thighs and on his arse and on his hips where the doctor was holding onto him tightly.

So hot.

John rocked into him, and Sherlock groaned. He had always loved being taken in this position—on his hands and knees, legs wide apart so that he could swallow more of John—and it felt even more amazing than he remembered it being. John was hitting his prostate with each thrust, and Sherlock was crying out, and John was mumbling nonsense behind him, falling forward so that his chest covered Sherlock's back, ramming into him harder and harder and harder until….

Sherlock came without even touching himself, from the feel of John alone. His arms gave out beneath him and his chest fell onto the bed, his swollen stomach rubbing against the mattress as John continued to pound into him. He could feel the slick liquid of his own semen rubbing into his skin from the sheets as he was fucked, and he could do nothing more than lay there, boneless from his orgasm and letting John use his body however the other saw fit.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John gasped behind him. "You feel so good. You're going to make me cum."

And in his post-orgasmic daze, Sherlock could feel John's thrusts getting harder, feel John's fingers tighten on his hips until it almost hurt, feel John's breath catch as he climaxed inside of Sherlock, making a mess out of him.

"There's no way that could ever make a porcupine," John huffed, his breathing irregular as he pulled out of Sherlock and fell back onto his side of the bed.

Sherlock took a moment to revel in the feel of John's orgasm seeping out of his loosened hole. He had always loved how John opened him up. "No," he agreed, his voice muffled by the pillow that his face was still pressed into. "Not at all."

Xxx

The next morning, John got up and went about making breakfast, letting Sherlock sleep in. He knew that the man hadn't gotten much sleep last night—he had woken up slightly when Sherlock had first gotten up to use the bathroom, and had felt Sherlock tossing and turning before he had completely woken the doctor up—and he didn't particularly want to deal with a crabby Sherlock all day long.

Especially not when Lestrade had called earlier and said that there was a case waiting for them to take a look at.

Yesterday had been hell enough.

When Sherlock finally shuffled out of bed and into the kitchen, John was happy to note that breakfast was just finishing up. He made Sherlock a heaping plate and gave himself a smaller portion.

"Hurry and eat," he told the bleary-eyed man, placing a kiss on the crown of Sherlock's head as he passed by him on his way to his own seat. "Lestrade's called us in on another case. It sounded promising."

" 'Promising' like yesterday was 'promising'?" Sherlock asked, scathingly.

John sighed, chewing on his eggs distractedly before answering. "No, Lestrade swore that this one was better."

"Good," Sherlock said shortly, and proceeded to dig into his breakfast with a vigor that John still found entertaining.

They ate in silence for the rest of the meal, and when they were done Sherlock happily went about getting showered and dressed in one of the outfits he had bought yesterday. Though he would never admit it, John knew how good the brunette felt about finally having clothes that fit him properly again. And, since Sherlock had always been on the thin side, he had been able to get away with simply buying larger-sized dress shirts and slacks, not having to bother with the hassle of getting an entire wardrobe completely tailored and customized specifically for these next few months.

"Come on, John," Sherlock called, some minutes later, as John was finishing washing up. "We don't want to be late again like yesterday."

The doctor walked out of the bathroom and towards Sherlock, already standing out on the landing, pulling his coat on as he went. "Yeah, okay," he said, fixing his collar. He started down the stairs before Sherlock and headed to the front door. "But let's walk a bit before we get a cab. I think the exercise will do you some good—"

His words were cut off as he opened the door and was immediately bombarded with the flash of dozens of cameras and the loud din of people suddenly shouting out, trying to be heard over each other.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Is it true that you are pregnant?"

"How far along are you?"

"Where did you get the Synathida?"

"Is John Watson the father of your baby?"

"Show us your bump!"

The two men stood, stunned, on their front step for a few seconds as questions and flashes bombarded them. It was not something new—being jumped by the media this way—but this was certainly unexpected. John, standing in front of Sherlock, unconsciously moved his body so that he stood in the way of the other man's abdomen. He turned so that he faced the consulting detective and put his arms up to keep the reporters from pushing in closer to the two of them.

"Turn around and get back in the flat."

"But the case—" Sherlock said, disappointedly.

"Sherlock, we aren't going to be able to sneak away from this without a car waiting," John retorted, pushing against the brunette to try to get him back in the flat. "Get back inside and call a cab. We can leave as soon as it gets here."

Sherlock finally acquiesced and turned around to open the door again, and John ushered him through hurriedly, shutting the door forcefully behind himself and turning the latch. Just in case.

Mrs. Hudson, hearing the racket outside through the open door, took that moment to walk down the hallway. "What's going on out there, boys?" she asked, frowning.

"I have a feeling, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, a look of contempt and frustration marring deep frown-lines on his face, "that we are going to be on the news tonight."

Xxx

"How did they find out?" Lestrade asked them when they finally arrived at Scotland Yard, sometime later, and told the man about the delay. They had ended up having to call the detective inspector to send a squad car to pick them up and an officer to escort them out of their flat, after their cab had been blocked off by a thick, impregnable wall of paparazzi.

John sighed tiredly. He had not been expecting this today. He had become jumpy and on-edge ever since he had opened their front door and found all those reporters out there. He didn't even want to think about how they could have found out about Sherlock.

"Well," he said carefully, "you have gotten…bigger, Sherlock. You don't look like your just fat, now. You look…pregnant."

From behind them, they heard a voice intervene.

"_I_ think he looks fat."

"Shut up, Anderson!" John scowled at the man. He was not in the mood for the antics today. Not now, anyways.

"Let's just…get on with the case," the doctor said wearily, running a hand through his short hair once again.

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed, not liking this conversation any more than John was, it seemed. "Right, well, I'll just fill you in on what you've missed, then."

Xxx

The rest of the day was spent in blissful ignorance of the rest of the outside world. For John and Sherlock, the only thing that existed to them at that moment was the morgue at St. Bart's, and the experiments that Sherlock was conducting on the exhumed body of a certain deceased drug dealer along with the smaller tests John was running to help him.

It felt good to be able to get his mind off of the mess of the situation and John knew that Sherlock was just as distracted as he was.

Even more so, maybe.

It did worry John, as the doctor watched Sherlock work around chemicals that the brunette man didn't think twice about handling (John had had to go about checking everything to make sure it was safe for Sherlock to be around as the consulting detective told him off for being in his way), that Sherlock could delve so deep into his work that he forgot for a moment about everything else in his life.

Would he do the same when the baby was born? They hadn't had any cases that involved them running around London, or being chased after by hitmen—thankfully—but it wouldn't be long now before one of those cropped up. And if John couldn't even get Sherlock to sit back and let him or Molly bash in the skull of a cadaver to see the shatter pattern at this early stage of the pregnancy, what did that foretell about the other 4 and a half months, when Sherlock would be near to bursting with child?

The sharp beep of one of the medical machines going off across the room jolted him out of his thoughts. He shook his head, as if to dispel the cobwebs of worries and decided not to get caught up in things that hadn't even happened yet.

They would cross those bridges when they came to them.

Sherlock, opening the lid of the machine and taking out the vial of blood, held it up to the light and stared at it, a happy smile splitting his face.

"Oh, yes. Perfect," he said to no one in particular.

"Good news, then?" John asked companionably.

"The best," Sherlock said, moving swiftly to gather up the papers that he had left by his microscope. "May have just solved the whole case."

"Good," John said, stretching in his stiff seat with a groan. "I'm getting a bit peckish."

Sherlock hadn't heard him, though. He had taken off already, with nothing but the swish and flurry of his long overcoat to signify his leaving.

Xxx

Later that night he was lying in bed next to Sherlock, glad to be finally done with the day.

At least, he would be if Sherlock could stop fidgeting.

"I shouldn't have eaten that spicy chicken fillet," he grumbled, turning over onto his side for the hundredth time that night.

"I told you not to," John said dismissively, not even bothering to take his eyes away from the book he was reading as he sat up in bed next to Sherlock.

"But it was _so good_," Sherlock groaned, flipping on his back with a thrash of legs and arms. "And I couldn't refuse it. God, what was I thinking…I don't even _like_ chicken!"

"Well then why did you eat it?" John asked with a sigh, trying to focus his attention on the words in front of him but failing miserably as Sherlock continued to flail about next to him.

"Because!" the brunette grumbled, kicking the sheets off of himself. "I don't know! This thing," he pointed angrily at his belly, "made me do it! I wanted the turkey sandwich but _nooo_. I got one whiff of that bloody chicken and this hellion inside of me went crazy."

John gave him a disapproving glance and roll of his eyes. "Sherlock, you know eating spicy foods that late in the day gives you heartburn at night. You should have just ignored your craving and gone with the turkey." He re-read the same sentence for the sixth time and still didn't take in a word of it.

"That's easy for you to say," Sherlock snapped. " 'Ignore your cravings' my arse! I'd like to see you ignore a piece of food when everything in your body is telling you to just bloody eat it! My God," he said, his voice suddenly going small and dismal. "I've become like some sort of wild animal, like one of those bears in the campgrounds who steals picnic baskets and eats everything inside including the plastic-ware."

"You've not become a bear, Sherlock," John said in exasperation, finally giving up on the book altogether and setting it in his lap, cover down. "And I'm sure it wouldn't be that hard to just say no to the spicy chicken next time."

"I won't be able to, John. The baby—it needs the spicy chicken."

"Now you're just being ridiculous," he snapped. "Just. Don't. Order. It."

Sherlock groaned and clutched at his chest, sitting up suddenly with a wince. "It's killing me, John. Everything it wants—everything it needs— its killing me."

"It's not _killing_ you, Sherlock. It's just a bit of heartburn." He tried to keep his voice level, because he knew that Sherlock was indeed in (at least a bit of) pain, but it was hard for the doctor. He didn't think he succeeded.

"It is, John!"

Fed up now with the production, John answered Sherlock sharply, not even bothering to try to be gentle any longer. "You said that you were dying all throughout your first trimester—hell, you even said that you were dying when you were vomiting up your guts from the Synathida. And every time you get a cramp in your legs or a twinge in your back you say that you're dying. Well, guess what: _you're not_," he said harshly, enunciating the words so that maybe they would sink into Sherlock's thick skull a little better. "You are perfectly fine. Every woman goes through the exact same things that you are going through, and they all live. So save the drama, Sherlock—I've had quite enough for today."

And he went back to reading his book in a forceful silence, pointedly ignoring Sherlock now.

After a moment of injured silence, Sherlock's deep baritone voice cut through the stillness. "You sure are rowdy tonight. What's crawled up your arse?"

"Nothing, Sherlock," John sighed. "I just want to read my book. Why won't you let me have even that much happiness?"

"What's so great a read, then?" He reached out for the book and John quickly tried to pull it away, but Sherlock was surprisingly quick for a dying, pregnant man.

" 'What to expect when you're expecting'?" the brunette read incredulously.

John reddened a bit around the ears and grabbed his book back, though Sherlock didn't put up much of a fight to keep it away from him. "I thought it might be useful to know a few things when the baby arrives," he mumbled embarrassedly.

"Oh, John," Sherlock said with a small smile. "How utterly paternal of you."

Xxx

The next few days in 221b Baker Street were quite hectic. News stories had been printed in all of the major—and even the minor—newspapers and pictures of he and John outside their flat were splashed across every front page that he saw.

Incidentally coinciding with the pictures and subsequent articles came the constant, incessant ring of his cell phone.

The emails, too, came flooding in from John's blog, none—frustratingly enough—having to do with a single case, and even John's cell phone went off a few times, as Sherlock had listed him as his 'in case of emergency' at the doctor's office and different medical specialists kept sneaking into his file and calling any number they could get a hold of, trying to set up appointments for diagnostic exams and interviews. A few even left messages asking if they could publish papers on Sherlock's Synathida case in some of the medical journals both he and John were so fond of reading.

He found it a little overwhelming, suddenly being the center of so much attention for such a thing. He was used to being in the spotlight for his mental prowess, for his crime-solving abilities, and for his head-spinning deductions of the human nature, but this…somehow this made him feel almost…dirty.

This wasn't about his mental abilities or his career achievements. This was about body, plain and simple. This was about the fact that he was—for lack of a better term—a _freak_. A medical marvel. A scientific quandary.

Not that he had ever minded either of those things. No, just the opposite, in fact. He loved a good story about a breakthrough in the field of science or medicine, or a good riddle about a new problem that had cropped up and stumped all of the experts.

But that was not what all the phone calls and emails and messages were about.

_He_ had become the medical marvel now. Between one breath and the next, in the span of a handful of pills, he had made himself Britain's greatest science experiment, a lab rat that was being watched and written about and tested on.

He tried to shake off the feeling of discomfort that had settled on his shoulders, but he couldn't seem to. He worried about what all of this meant for the future of his pregnancy, and after. He still had a little over 4 months to go, and this situation was putting him at a loss as to how to deal with it.

He wanted to do what was best for his and John's child, but he didn't know exactly what that was, and even John didn't know quite how to answer that particular question. The only thing Sherlock knew was that he was not equipped to handle such a strange and delicate situation.

If he wanted to never disappoint his child, then somebody was going to have to tell him what to do, because he was at a loss.

He was trying, though. He was trying to be everything that this baby needed him to be. He answered all the questions, he gave all the fluids, he undressed and opened himself up for the doctors in every possible way he could. He tried to brush off the feeling that he was being drained—by the baby, by John, by everyone else around him—by telling himself that he had done far more humiliating and self-deprecating things for far less, in the past.

Because he was damned if he was not going to try his best to make everything perfect for his baby.

And when all of the doctors and all of the specialists and all of the news reporters and all of the strangers on the street wanted to meet him, shake his hand, give him congratulations and smiles and words of thanks, he just felt like he was doing nothing but selling his body to science by the pound. He had not been aware that when he had swallowed that very first pill of Synathida, he was basically signing his name on their dotted line and preparing to give his dignity away to them.

But he did it. He bit his tongue, and held his breath and let everything wash over him.

As his belly continued to grow in the following days, he found himself reaching out to place a hand on it more and more. It helped to ground him when the phone calls became too much, or the reporters chased him down outside of his flat or another article was printed off.

When it all seemed to be crashing down on top of him, he would take a moment to breath, and lay his long fingers across his swollen belly, and smile softly.

_I promise that I'll make it perfect for you, _he would tell the baby silently, with the brush of a fingertip.

He was too far gone to care that he was being pulled apart by everything going on in his life. All he cared about was what was growing inside of him, getting bigger with each passing day, becoming more and more _real_.

And he knew that he had utterly lost himself to it, and that it was good in a very bad way.

X.X.X

A/N: Next chapter, 'Celebrity Status'.


	5. Celebrity Status

A/N: Another big thanks to my beta Jenamy for taking the time to beta these monstrosities called chapters! I really appreciate all the support and feed back! And thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I haven't said it so far, but I love seeing your comments and responding to them when I have the chance. Every word in a review means the world to me, thank you!

Warning for this chapter: Slight John/Lestrade action. Sorry, but it's needed to create tension! Believe me, if I didn't have to do it, I wouldn't!

Disclaimer: Another line from 'Friends' snuck in here, I think.

Xxx

At his 20th week, Sherlock was beginning to feel rather frustrated with the whole 'pregnancy' thing, and a bit tired of it all. Halfway through his term and weighing more than he ever had in his whole life, his back was hurting almost incessantly and the cramps in his legs and swelling in his feet didn't help matters at all. At this point, John was taking great joy in telling him that his appendix was stretched to about the size of a cantaloupe, if the women's uterus was anything to go by, and Sherlock felt so tight and stretched that he couldn't be bothered to argue with his live-in doctor. John was also quick to remind him that the hormones raging through his body were loosening all of his joints, muscles and ligaments in preparation for his expanding insides, and that with the growing fetus would come a severe shift in his body's center of gravity that would make him a touch less elegant and graceful than he usually liked to be.

It was all a little much for him to deal with sometimes, and most mornings he spent half of his time getting ready simply staring at himself in his full length mirror, shirt only half buttoned so that the two pieces of material fell away on either side of his rounded belly, staring at the paper-thin flesh with a mixture of intense curiosity and slight abhorrence.

He hated what this thing was doing to him—physically, mentally—yet it intrigued him. Something so small, so seemingly inconsequential, and it was turning his life upside down.

For the past few weeks—ever since he had started getting bigger—every morning always started the same. He would measure the ever-growing width of his waist, the length from the bottom of his sternum to the top of his pubic bone, and the amount of weight that he gained from one day to the next. All the measurements would be meticulously written down in his notebook, along with each cramp, each craving, each pinched nerve. Nothing was left out of the data, not even sexual desires that came in crashing waves at the most random moments. Everything was jotted down—much to John's mortification—and at only 5 months into Sherlock's pregnancy, he had already filled up two composition notebooks and was working on his third.

He kept those notebooks in the small fireproof safe that John had bought for their important documents and his few guns, and which Sherlock had recently commandeered to use for the data's safe keeping. The whole reason he had taken the Synathida, after all, was for the research. And the more he declined the requests for interviews and examinations by other doctors or scientists that had been coming in floods the past week, the more important his data became.

It had only been 6 days since the news reporters had shown up on the front stoop of Baker St, and though there had been a mad dash to be the first to break the case, Sherlock was pleased that his prediction to John the other day had come true.

No news reporter worth his salt would want to publish a story—especially such a juicy one—with only a few small facts, and, since he and John certainly weren't confirming, denying, or granting interviews with anyone, even other doctors, there was no hard evidence to keep the story going.

For once in their lives—and their line of work—both Sherlock and John were extremely glad for doctor-patient confidentiality. It couldn't last much longer, they knew, but at least for the moment the only people they had to put up with were the incessant specialists, scientists and a few of the more radical citizens who were active in the Synathida campaigns, whether for it or against it.

John's voice suddenly cut through the silence of the flat, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

"Sherlock, ready to go? We don't want to be late for this one."

Sherlock smiled to himself and quickly jotted down the last few measurements. Surprisingly, he was excited about today's prenatal checkup—something which was unusual.

But today's was special. Because, in a few hours, he would hopefully have one more piece of vital information to put into his notebooks.

Today, they would find out the sex of the fetus.

Xxx

It was tricky finding a way into Dr. Greenwhich's office without being noticed. Thankfully, there was not a protest mob out today. It seemed that over the past few months, the anti-Synaths had begun to focus their efforts more on one major event at a time, instead of dispersing widely and constantly organizing a rally every few random days or so. It also helped that, as time went by and the world didn't burn like the proverbial Sodom and Gomorra, the rallies seemed to be getting smaller, less intense, and less frequent.

But neither he nor John wanted to push their luck that much. The longer they could keep a confirmation of Sherlock's condition out of the papers, the better off they would all be.

And Sherlock knew that all radical groups like the anti-Synaths never truly left a stake-out spot unattended, no matter how long it had been since the last protest they had made there.

So that was why he didn't think it unnecessary at all to go through the trouble of finding a way into the building from the delivery entrances in the back, like John seemed to think it was.

"We're sneaking in like criminals," the doctor complained, as Sherlock checked the loading docks over quickly to make sure their way was clear. It was empty at the moment, not even a late load being delivered. The two made their way hastily towards the back door, and slipped through it, meeting surprised nurses and physician's assistants in the back corridors of the medical office as they made their way back towards the front room to check in.

They didn't make it though, as Dr. Greenwhich turned a corner and spotted them, waving them down jovially.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" he called out happily to them. "I was getting a little worried; you aren't usually late to your appointments. And I see you've brought Dr. Watson with you, how wonderful!" He turned his bright, friendly smile on John and the shorter blonde man couldn't do anything in the face of that grin but smile back. "Big checkup today, isn't it? Are you both excited?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, tired of the small talk already. That was one thing he hated about having John go places with him. The small doctor tended to make Sherlock seem more 'personable', as Lestrade had so eloquently put it one day at a press conference after he had told Sherlock not to go anywhere without John right by his side. And it would seem it proved itself to be true, as people always seemed to want to stay and chat more with him whenever John was by his side. Like an exotic animal at the zoo whose handler was right beside him, ready to pull on his leash in case he lunged.

Too bad he wasn't much in the mood for chatting, at the moment.

"I daresay we'd enjoy it just a tad more if we didn't have to sneak around town like children playing hooky from school," he stated rather scathingly to the plump old doctor, and got an elbow shoved none too carefully into his back by John for his rudeness.

The physician didn't seem to notice the couple's silent quibble, though. Dr. Greenwhich only lost the corners of his smile and turned away from them in a rather embarrassed sort of manner.

"Yes, I know what you must be going through," he said sadly, bringing a hand up to wipe at his bald head distractedly. "I've had to take your file out from the main office and carry it around in my briefcase, so no one else can get a hold of it. I'm sorry to say that I was a little slow to do it at first, and I had a receptionist or two who didn't mind playing fast and loose with my patient's private information." He winced as he remembered something, and Sherlock could only assume it was at the memory of the conversation he must have had with his staff. Dr. Greenwhich didn't seem the type of boss to be overly harsh with his employees, if the first name status he had with all of staff was any indication. "Everyone has been dealt with, but not before a few phone numbers had been leaked," he continued. "I apologize for that profusely. I know what the unneeded stress must be doing to you."

"I've hardly seemed to notice it at all," Sherlock replied snidely with an arrogant and exaggerated flip of his hand.

Dr. Greenwhich didn't seem to be one to catch sarcasm though, because he only smiled widely again, as if happy to hear that Sherlock hadn't been inconvenienced by the ordeal after all. "Good, that's good. I'm glad to hear that your delicate condition hasn't been affected by all the nonsense." He gave the consulting detective an appraising, medical-based look up and down, and nodded happily. "It looks like you've started eating rather well. Sight bigger than you were last time I saw you."

And before Sherlock could anticipate what the other man was doing, Dr. Greenwhich was reaching a hand out to playfully pat Sherlock's ever-growing baby bump, not aware of the murderous look that was building on Sherlock's brow.

Thankfully, John intervened before Sherlock killed the man. There had been a slight pause between the time that Dr. Greenwhich reached out to Sherlock's belly, and the moment when Sherlock lost all sense of the propriety and decorum that John had practically beat into him over the years, and John used that split second to step in between the men, pushing aside Dr. Greenwhich's hand with his own in a polite, inconspicuous kind of way, as he chuckled softly and agreed, "Er, yeah, been trying to plumpen him up a bit." He rubbed his hand over Sherlock's bulge like it was a tiny Buddha belly, to be sure that there was not a spot left open that the other doctor might try to touch again. "It's been a chore, though, let me tell you. He's never been much of an eater."

"That's fine, that's fine," Dr. Greenwhich said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "As long as all the numbers look good, that's what matters. Why don't you let Crystal take all of your measurements and I'll be in with the ultrasound technician in a tick. I have some paperwork that needs finishing up. Won't take long."

The whole time Sherlock stood there, stunned speechless at the audacity of it all. No words, no thoughts, would come to his mind that could describe the sheer amount of disgust he felt at the touch of a stranger's hand on such an intimate part of his body. Never before had anyone taken such a liberty with him, barely even John would do such a thing.

He was only vaguely aware of John and Dr. Greenwhich talking, but he tried to focus all of his attention on the slow, languid movements John's hand was making on his tummy, pretending that with each pass of John's hand over the rounded globe of his flesh, the other man's touch was erasing the distinctly icky feeling of Dr. Greenwhich's strange hand on him.

And then, before he knew what was happening again, John was steering him into one of the small, impersonal exam rooms and a short, red-headed nurse entered in after them, going over the tests they were going to run that day and the stats they were going to take from him

This was always the part of the checkups that Sherlock hated the most. The fact that he was still on edge from Dr. Greenwhich's impromptu touch didn't help matters at all. He despised having to sit still while some pimply-faced, teenaged, barely certified 'medical assistant' poked and prodded him, missing the vein in the crook of his arm twice as they tried to draw blood and holding the measuring tapes too far away from the top, so that they added a few extra centimeters. He was _not_ that big around, after all!

This 'Crystal' character seemed a little more jumpy than the last few had been, and she made more mistakes than the others had in the past as she nervously fumbled with all of the medical instruments meant to check his statistics. She wouldn't look him in the face and she tried to rush through the exam, clearly not comfortable being the one who was performing the tests on Sherlock.

He guessed that he had gained a bit of a reputation among Dr. Greenwhich's nursing staff, after the last time he had made two of the more emotional women cry during his previous prenatal checkup. And one of the older doctors.

But it wasn't his fault that they were all _idiots_. _I mean, really_, he thought with an inward sigh and a roll of his sea green eyes to the ceiling. He could check his own blood pressure more effectively than the moron working over him right now.

"The cuff is far too loose, you know," he chastised her, when he finally couldn't take sitting there in silence for another moment. "And you've probably contaminated my urine sample by leaving out on the counter without a lid for the past five minutes," he said, using the arm that had the blood pressure cuff around it to point at the urine sample pointlessly. She knew where the sample was, after all, but he just wanted to prove a point. The cuff slid off of his upper arm to dangle uselessly around his wrist when he moved his arm.

"Oh, er…" The nurse, Crystal—or whatever her silly little name was—blushed profusely and began trying to fix the cuff and put it back into place.

"Sherlock," came John's warning voice from across the room, where he had been sitting quietly and patiently, in his usual rigid military posture, while the nurse had been fussing over Sherlock.

But he couldn't possibly leave well enough alone now, not when he was practically aching from the restraint he had been showing ever since coming to this blasted doctor's appointment.

"And you have the coldest hands anyone has ever touched me with," he told the young nurse bluntly as she continued to fiddle with the Velcro on the cuff, as if that were somehow the source of the problem. "It's like being man-handled by an Eskimo."

"Sherlock!" John snapped out, his tone harsher this time.

"I—I have poor circulation…" Crystal mumbled, finally giving up on the cuff and simply staring, wide-eyed and blearily, at Sherlock as he sat in the small little exam chair, staring at her rather intensely.

"That explains the stupid as well, then," he retorted. "Not enough blood getting to your brain. If I were you, I'd think of maybe switching to veterinary medicine. Med school drop outs don't make very good nurses, either."

"_Sherlock!_" John was standing now, angry scowl on his face. He was pushing and pushing his luck with his lover, he knew it. And it wouldn't hold out forever. He knew how much John hated when he was unnecessarily difficult, but there was only so much stupid he could be forced to deal with and, unfortunately, the fetus inside of him seemed to be draining his daily quota lately.

"We're done now, Crystal," he said, ripping the blood pressure cuff off of himself.

"B-but, I still n-need to—" her voice was wavering and cracking slightly with the lovely sound of imminent tears.

He shook his head and made a face. "No, sorry, you've missed your chance at it."

"But, sir—"

"Don't worry," John said to her reassuringly. "He's been charting his own progress at home. I snuck a peek at his stats before we left the flat, I can tell you all of them."

"That's very nice but—sir!" she exclaimed as Sherlock took the blood pressure cuff he had taken off of himself and balled it up, tossing it across the room and into the stainless steel sink at the other end. "—we still need to take our own measurements."

She ran over to the sink to try and salvage the poor cuff just as Dr. Greenwhich came back into the room with the ultrasound technician, following closely after him, wheeling in her machine.

"That's all right, Crystal," Dr. Greenwhich comforted the little red headed nurse as she sniffled and tried to untangle the mess of Velcro and tubing that Sherlock had made out of the cuff. "Mr. Watson is a doctor, and the only one who can spend any prolonged amount of time around Mr. Holmes without being mortally offended, it seems. We'll get all the information that we need from him." He turned stern-looking eyes onto Sherlock. "This once."

Sherlock was not convinced.

Dr. Greenwhich continued, when Sherlock did nothing but stare at the man blankly. "Mr. Holmes," he said with a tired sigh and a rub at his eyes underneath his small spectacles. "I do have to ask, though, that you learn to have a little more patience with my nursing staff. You still have several more checkups to go through before the end."

"I came here for one thing only, doctor," Sherlock said, unapologetically. "And that was not to be felt up by your staff."

At that, Crystal reddened again, and a fresh bout of tears came to her eyes. "I didn't feel him up!" she said, turning to Dr. Greenwhich desperately. "M-my hand accidentally brushed against his c-chest, but I didn't _feel_ anything, I swear!"

From the other side of the room, Sherlock heard an exasperated, "Oh God," being exhaled on a scoff by John, and he saw out of the corner of his eye the man turn his back on Sherlock for a moment, to try to compose himself.

"Crystal, it's all right, I assure you," Dr. Greenwhich was soothing the girl. "Why don't you go have a cup of tea in the break room, and I'll be by a little later to explain patients like Mr. Holmes to you."

The young girl hiccupped ridiculously and nodded her head, sniffling and wiping at her eyes as she left the room without another glance at Sherlock or anyone else, blood pressure cuff still in hand.

When the door was closed, Dr. Greenwhich waited a moment longer before he said simply, "That's the fourth one you've made cry."

Sherlock 'hmm'ed his disinterest. "They shouldn't be so emotional," he said indifferently.

"You shouldn't be such a twat," John scolded, finally able to trust himself enough to speak.

Sherlock only smiled, happy to get such emotional responses out of everyone over such a little thing. He did also, secretly, like the fact that everyone was being extra tolerant of him lately—something he was beginning to understand he owed to the pregnancy. Apparently people were thinking that he was just being slightly more hormonal than usual.

He liked to use that to his advantage whenever he could.

So instead of giving Dr. Greenwhich an empty promise about being better behaved next time, he decided to ignore the physician's comment and change the subject. He was delighted when they let him.

"And why are you here, Dr. Greenwhich?" he asked, relaxing back into the exam chair and placing his hands behind his head for extra comfort—the chair didn't have much padding. "Only a technician can work the ultrasound machine. There isn't really any need for you to take as much personal interest in me as you have been."

Dr. Greenwhich chuckled and pulled out a small rolling stool from underneath the counter that the stainless steel sink was attached to. He sat down heavily in it and rolled closer to Sherlock. "Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Holmes," he answered. "It's not just you I am taking such personal care of. I have a handful of other Synathida cases that I am just as equally invested in."

"And why is that?" John asked, taking his own seat again and sitting with his feet wide apart, hands on each knee. His shoulders were a bit more tense than usual, even for his always-militant posture, and Sherlock had to hide a smile at his handy work.

Even after all these years, he could still push John's buttons.

Dr. Greenwhich gave John a little smile, and Sherlock noticed the ultrasound technician make a small, uncomfortable sound in her throat and begin to make a show of turning the machine on and calibrating it noisily, turning her back to the doctor.

Interesting.

"You boys never got to meet my partner," Dr. Greenwhich began with a clearing of his throat. "He died a few years ago. Three, actually, this coming November, long before I hired you and Dr. Watson here to help me when Mikayla got kidnapped. But, he was a wonderful man. The best." There was a long pause as Dr. Greenwhich stared at his hands, resting in his lap, and Sherlock exchanged quizzical glances with John.

"We had been together for 15 years before we decided that we should adopt a child together," Dr. Greenwhich continued, once he had composed himself again. "It was Mark's greatest dream, which he had put off for me because I hadn't thought we were ready. But then we found Mikayla, my daughter whom you saved last year." At the mention of the girl's name, the sadness that had stolen over the older doctor's face disappeared, and a smile replaced it. "We decided to push through the adoption papers right away, we both fell so madly in love with her. But then…" There was another long pause, as Dr. Greenwhich's voice cracked horribly, and not even Penny made a peep as she stood by the ultrasound machine. "Mark died, Mr. Holmes, before the adoption was finalized, in a car crash."

Sherlock stared at the man before him. He had known that Dr. Greenwhich's spouse had died not long before he had taken the case of his kidnapped daughter—the man still had had a tan line on his ring finger and there had been pictures missing from the walls of his house, taken down and never replaced with new ones—but he had not taken the time to realize that Dr. Greenwhich's spouse had been another man, or that there had been so much guilt attached to his death.

"He never got the chance to know the happiness that a child brings into your life, simply by being there," the physician continued, voice cracking now in earnest. "I feel like I was the one who kept that from him. Because I made him wait so long to have it."

For once, Sherlock didn't need John to tell him that he needed to hold his tongue, that he needed to stay quiet and not ruin this moment. And, for once, he listened to his instincts and let the man have a moment to compose himself again.

Dr. Greenwhich cleared his throat a few times, and blinked rather rapidly behind his small, half-moon glasses. When a decent amount of time passed he spoke again, and his voice was strong and level once again. "So, now, when Synathida can give men that feeling that Mark was looking for, how can I just sit back and not help this time, Mr. Holmes? I owe it to Mark to give every man who wants to have this opportunity the chance to make their dreams a reality. And I will fight with every breath in me to continue to do so for the rest of my life. That is why each and every one of my Synathida cases is so important to me. That is why I have so selfishly asked all of my staff to put up with the protests, and the rallies, and the mess that this is all turning out to be." He smiled over at the ultrasound tech, who smiled shyly back at him. "And all of my employees have been very understanding of my desire to do this. And I appreciate every single one of them."

Sherlock sat there for a long moment, not quite sure what to say. Words in these types of situations were not his strong suit—they never had been—and he was slightly relieved when John cleared his throat from across the room and broke the strangling silence that was settling on them.

"That's…I didn't know about you and your husband, when we were helping you get Mikayla back," John said, a bit awkwardly.

"No," Dr. Greenwhich agreed, shaking his head and swiveling his chair around to face the blonde doctor. "I don't speak about him often. It is still…painful."

"Of course," John said, quickly, with a small dip of his head.

"But enough of that," Dr. Greenwhich said, spinning in his chair once again so that he was facing Sherlock once more. "I don't mean to put a damper on such a wonderful day for you two boys. Penny," he called out to the ultrasound technician, "are we up and running?"

"Aye aye, captain," the woman confirmed with a smile, punching in a last line of data on the keypad of the machine and grabbing the Doppler wand up, putting it at the ready.

"Let's get to it, then, shall we?" Dr. Greenwhich asked, his smile growing to epic proportions.

Sherlock couldn't help himself—he fidgeted slightly in his seat, the only indication of his emotions at the upcoming event. He had tried to talk himself out of being excited over such a silly thing. It was only the sex of a child—it was a simple 50/50 chance that it could be one of two things…not really a big surprise. And ultimately, the sex meant nothing to him. It would not change the outcome of his experiment, or create a variable in his data. This sonogram meant nothing in terms of statistics and numbers and records.

And yet…

And yet, he couldn't help the light quivering of nervousness and anticipation that he felt, despite his best efforts. Because this was, in all actuality, _life changing_, and try as he might to not believe otherwise, deep down he knew that.

John, it seemed, couldn't control his anticipation either. He stood from his stiff chair in the corner of the exam room and made his way over to Sherlock, to stand by the man and be able to see the screen of the ultrasound machine better.

When the tech had Sherlock's abdomen gelled and ready, she pushed the Doppler wand into his stomach rather harshly, trying to be sure she could get a good, clear picture up on the screen. He winced as the end of the wand dug into his organs uncomfortably, but his eyes never once left the small black and white screen that everyone in the room was staring at intently.

For what, he couldn't yet tell. As far as he was concerned, the screen looked like a bad telly that was turned to an off-air channel. It was snowy and murky-looking, and Sherlock couldn't distinguish one thing on the screen from another.

But, it seemed that he was the only one.

"There's your cecum," the technician said, frowning and digging into Sherlock's belly a little harder.

"That looks like the appendix," John said suddenly, pointing to the screen. As if to confirm his words, there was a quick flicker of movement on the screen, something a regular organ of Sherlock's surely could not make.

"Yes," the tech agreed, focused on the screen in front of her. She gave a little twist to the wand, keeping it pressed harshly into Sherlock's stomach. "And right _here_ is…"

She pointed to the screen, and to a small, almost bean-shaped figure that could barely be seen through the black and white static lines all around it.

Beside him, John smiled, grinning from ear to ear. "Look, Sherlock," he said, his voice teasing. "It has your wavy black lines."

Sherlock couldn't even be bothered with thinking of a response for John. Not when he was so intent on deciphering what he saw on the screen. But all of his medical knowledge, all of his skills of deduction, could not make the ultrasound any easier to read.

He didn't have to though, it would seem. Because the technician turned to him then, face alight with happiness. "Congratulations," she told him with a smile. "It's a boy."

And suddenly he felt like he was disappearing behind the placid, pale glow of the sonogram screen that was surrounding them softly.

Xxx

John's world had been effectively narrowed down to just three people in the past half hour. Him, Sherlock, and their little boy.

A boy.

He had always wanted a boy.

Someone he could play football with, someone he could teach how to shoot and take hunting, someone he could hug proudly on the day that they told him they wanted to serve their country, just like him…

A little boy.

He realized he was grinning like an idiot as they walked down the busy streets and back towards their side of town and he tried to stop, but when he glanced over at Sherlock and saw that the other man was doing the very same, he gave up the effort and just let the smile spread.

Sherlock turned to him then, catching his eye, and he opened his mouth to say something when someone suddenly ran into him as he was walking, a man in brown leather jacket that instantly reached out to him to make sure he didn't fall as the two collided.

"Terribly sorry, sir, didn't mean to—" the man said, turning to face Sherlock. John was instantly by the brunette's side, pulling him away from the stranger, but the man gave Sherlock one look and his words cut off, face suddenly splitting into a wide grin. "Oy, you're that bloke!" he said suddenly, his whole face lighting up when he looked at Sherlock and recognized who he was. "That—that Holmes fella! The one who took the Synathida, right?"

John instantly tensed and pulled Sherlock away from the man, stepping forward between them.

But the man reached a hand back out to grab at Sherlock's wrist, keeping him close. "I just want to tell you thank you," he said unexpectedly, moving his hand down to shake Sherlock's in a quick movement and then releasing him altogether.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Thank you," the man repeated. "I know you've been in the papers before, but you've always seemed like a normal guy who's just caught the interest of the media. I'm mean, you're not, like, famous or anything," he said with a bit of a shrug. "And so when they wrote about you taking the Synathida, it seemed more…real, 'ya know? Like, regular blokes just deciding to do something great. It's really inspired me." He smiled again, and John didn't know anything about the man but he could tell that the smile was genuine. Happy.

"I've decided to come out to me family, and introduce them to me boyfriend of 9 years," the man continued excitedly. "We want to take the pill, too. And we've even decided to get married before we get pregnant!" He laughed, as if he couldn't really believe it himself. "I never wanted to because me family didn't know about us, but we want to have kids together. And, if someone like you can come out and do it, then why can't someone like me?"

"You're very kind," Sherlock said politely, inching away from the man and John followed him, neither turning their backs on the stranger, "but, really, we didn't mean for this to affect anyone else other than ourselves." He gave the man what John liked to call his 'newspaper smile' (the one he saved for press conferences and pictures) and continued to walk away from him. "I'm happy for you, but we didn't have anything to do with the decisions you've made in your life. Congratulations, though. Very happy for you. Wish you all the best."

And with that done, Sherlock turned around to leave the man behind, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"You may not think you didn't have anything to do with the decisions I've made," the man continued telling them, coming around so that he was in front of them again, refusing to be ignored. "But I'm not the only one to be inspired by you. I keep reading about all those anti-Synath protests, but you should know that they aren't the only people who have strong feelings about the pill." Somewhere close by, a clock chimed the hour and the man looked down at his wrist watch with a small curse. "Well, I got to run. On me way to a prenatal checkup and I'm late!" With a finally, friendly wave goodbye he left, leaving Sherlock and John standing on the sidewalk, staring concernedly at each other.

"Did he just tell me that I wasn't famous?" Sherlock asked after a moment of stunned silence. "How utterly rude. Doesn't he know that my ego thrives on the fact that I get attention from complete strangers daily?"

John laughed at Sherlock's lame attempt at a joke, but it was a forced sound. "Sherlock, do you think he's right?" he asked the consulting detective, a worried frown coming over his face suddenly. "About you inspiring other people to take the pill?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," the brunette said with a flippant wave of his hand and a small scowl. He started walking again and John could do nothing but follow him. "You know as well as I do that one person can't change the minds of hundreds of people without even doing anything at all! These people don't know me; why would they flip their lives upside down to make a decision that I have nothing to do wi—?"

Sherlock's words were cut off as they rounded the corner of their block and stopped dead in their tracks. A large group of people were standing outside their front door, many with cameras and press badges, but many more without them.

Nervously, John ducked his head and reached out to grab a hold of Sherlock's hand, walking straight into the heart of the crowd and hoping that this would be over soon. He wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a good cup of tea.

Surprisingly, the two made it more than half-way through the crowd without anyone noticing who they were, but when the first person shouted out "It's them!" their world exploded in a bang of camera flashes and questions shouted at them.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand tighter and tugged on it gently to bring him closer, but the crowd around them was closing in fast and making it harder for them to move forward.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!"

"Have you just come back from visiting your doctor?"

"Did you have a sonogram today?"

"Did you find out the sex of your baby?"

John was shoving past photographers and reporters aggressively, suddenly not caring about propriety or politeness. He was coming dangerously close to panicking when someone suddenly grabbed onto him, pulling him harshly away from a few photographers who were closing in around him.

And for the first time, he noticed that parts of the crowd were moving against him, backwards, and pushing the outer ring of people—where all the media reporters stood—back, away from the door of Baker Street and away from them.

Dazed, John took a moment to look around him. Still faces—smiling, comforting—surrounded him, not shouting stupid questions or curses at them. The people around them were quiet and unmoving, not trying to keep him and Sherlock from entering their flat but actually opening a way for them.

Behind him, John could hear the mechanical whiz of flashes still going off, and the questions and comments never ceased, but they were far enough away now that he didn't fear them. He was too focused on what was happening in front of him.

Still holding Sherlock's hand, John took a tentative step forward and was vaguely surprised when the crowd didn't close back in around them, attempting to swallow them whole. Instead, a man stepped forward, older and fierce-looking with a full facial beard and long, scraggily hair.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson?" the man asked, but he didn't wait for answer. "My name's James McNairn. I'm the head of the pro-Synath activist group. And I'd like to welcome you home."

Xxx

"What are they doing back here?" John asked, pacing the living room of 221b Baker Street in an agitated manner, hands fluttering as fast as his feet as he stomped back and forth from one wall to the next. Sherlock, of all people, had had to put the kettle on and offer Mr. McNairn tea and biscuits, seemingly much more calm about the whole thing than John himself was. "They left us alone after they couldn't get any information confirmed," the blonde doctor continued to mutter, while Sherlock and McNairn sat in the chairs in the living room, watching John fidget. "And we've only just been back from Sherlock's prenatal checkup. That isn't enough time for them all to have met up outside our flat like that."

McNairn took that moment to speak, throwing down the morning's newspaper on the coffee table, and both John and Sherlock leaned forward to look at the front page.

"It wasn't the checkup today that did it," McNairn said as the boys quickly scanned the article. "It was released today. There's no official confirmation yet, since no one who knows you personally has made a statement. But with a photo like this, a statement confirming the pregnancy is just a nicety."

It was a picture of him and Sherlock walking together down a London street. The wind had caught them just right and Sherlock's coat, which just so happened to be unbuttoned in the photograph, was blown back, revealing the too-tight shirt he had worn that day and the telltale bump that could be seen through it. Beside him, John was laughing at something Sherlock had just finished saying, his head thrown back and his cheeks flushed from the biting wind. In his hands were all the bags from _Le Petite Boutique_ and the menswear shop that was located next door to the baby store. He suddenly remembered what day the photograph must have been taken on—the day they had told everyone the news, the day they had bought the crib.

"Well, that's damning evidence if I've ever seen any," John mumbled with a sigh, resigning themselves to being screwed. He stood up again once he had skimmed the article—nothing more than barely truthful facts and poor guesses at what was going on in Sherlock's life—and rubbed a hand over his face.

"And why are you here, Mr. McNairn," Sherlock suddenly spoke up, his voice deep and almost seeming to echo in the stillness of 221b. "If I may be so presumptuous as to ask?"

For his part, James McNairn had the good grace to look faintly ashamed of himself, and fidget in his chair slightly. But it was hard to look chagrined with a full facial beard and the scraggily demeanor of an aging hipster.

"You're wondering why we are here now, the pro-Synaths, I bet, yeah?" he asked, taking a small sip of tea and a part of John cringed as the man's grimy fingers clutched the delicate handle of his mother's antique tea cup. "Well, just like everyone else, we only found out about you for sure today."

"But what about before?" Sherlock asked, his tone not gentle. "When the anti-Synaths were gathering protest rallies at the Renaissance Medical Plaza, and the free clinics where men who didn't want their identities traced were going to get the pills, and all the other doctor's offices in London that were getting bombarded by those radicals? Where were you then?"

"As I'm sure you well know, Mr. Holmes," McNairn said, his voice a little harsh at being accused in such a way, "it is a lot harder to find people who are willing to go against the public majority and fight for a noble cause than it is to gather up an angry mob hell bent on telling you that you are living your life wrong. Is that not right?"

"So, then, what are you doing here, of all places?" John interjected, not liking the growing tension that was settling in his living room as Sherlock and McNairn continued to stare at one another, sizing each other up.

"Well, you've already been in the paper before about this situation—last week—though they didn't really make a big ordeal about it. But, when only one newspaper released the story today, we figured that it was going to be a mad-house at your flat today, and we've finally got enough people for our cause to make a difference once the lot of the anti-Synaths gather up."

"That's not all, though," Sherlock said, scathingly. "You also want to use this incident to get your name out there, don't you? A pretty good opportunity, I must say. You knew where the majority of news reporters would be today, and you could get a nice publicity shot in while you introduced your group of pro-Synaths to London. What could be more noble an introduction to the world than being seen helping a poor couple cope with the atrocities brought on by the paparazzi and the anti-Synaths? Am I right?"

"Yeah, I'd heard about your little tricks you like to play with people," McNairn said cautiously, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously from underneath his scraggily eyebrows. "Tearing them down so that you can show them what's what. But, believe it or not, Mr. Holmes, we are here to help you. We did already, did we not?"

"Yes, you did," John answered the man quickly, because he knew that Sherlock did not respond well to people telling him that he needed them. He put a warning hand on Sherlock's tense shoulder and held it there. It wouldn't do for Sherlock to anger the only people who were fighting the same battle as he was now. "Thank you for that. It was very helpful."

"Don't mention it," McNairn said with a nonchalant wave of his dirty hand. "We're in this together now, after all. And we have to start looking out for our friends."

James took one last drink from his cup, the delicate, gold inlaid porcelain looking ridiculous against his dark stained denim jacket and the purple, wrinkled tunic he wore beneath it, and stood up to leave. Sherlock followed suit, to escort the man to the door and John followed close behind them.

"Thanks for the tea, lads," McNairn said, turning on the landing to give the boys one last look. "And for the photo opp," he admitted freely. He gave both John and Sherlock a stern look, one that spoke of many wars waged and some even won, and John could see even in the poor light on the landing that the lines on his face were etched deep and hard into his skin.

"I'm sorry we didn't meet under better circumstances, Mr. Holmes," McNairn said, and John could tell that, if nothing else, he was being sincere about that particular fact. "But I think you should remember that we're on the same side now. And people like me…I'm just trying to make this world a better place for people like you and your partner to live in. And for you to raise your child in. Remember that."

And then he turned and descended the stairs of 221b, leaving Sherlock and John standing out on the landing and looking down after him as he opened the front door and walked out onto Baker Street, getting swallowed up by the crowd of reporters and flashes of light that had made their way back to the stoop.

Xxx

The picture was everywhere suddenly. Even more popular and annoying than the one of Sherlock in that silly little hat that had plagued his nightmares years before.

Both Sherlock and John refused to leave their flat for days after the incident and had Mrs. Hudson go out and bring them up take out and all the newspapers she could find.

Sherlock stayed surprisingly complacent over the next few days, not even complaining that Lestrade was not calling about cases and nothing was coming in over the blog. Little did he know that John had texted Greg not to call about a case on penalty of castration, and that John had disabled the wireless card on his laptop, so that the automatic _ding_ of an email coming in didn't go off.

But Sherlock hardly even seemed to notice the lack of work. For the most part, he sat on the couch and watched crap telly with Mrs. Hudson for most of the day, while John went about moving furniture in his old room and making it more baby-friendly. And when Sherlock wasn't lying sprawled out on the couch, he was up at the window of the living room, looking down onto the news reporters still camping out on the sidewalk of Baker Street, composing bits and pieces of music, some soft and sweet and sad, and others a little more tumultuous.

After a while John even tried to get a rise out of Sherlock just for the hell of it, turning to the quiet brunette man one morning after Mrs. Hudson had dropped off the morning paper and some pastries, and John opened the periodical up to find yet another article about them in it. This one was on the fourth page and seemed decidedly smaller than the ones from the previous day—a good sign. It meant that the whole ordeal was dying down somewhat and that they could continue on with their normal lives soon. For each article that came out, there was always some piece of new information that the reporters had found out. How far along Sherlock was, the sex of the baby, how he was balancing work, theories on his career plans for after the baby was born. It was all rather disturbing, but John was glad it was finally winding down.

"For someone who says they don't like the attention," he teased Sherlock as the brunette lay sprawled out on the couch, long legs dangling over the armrest and a cup of tea resting on the growing mound of his belly, "you sure do get your photo in the paper an awful lot."

He was disappointed though, and more than a little worried, when the only response he got was a mumbled "Shut up, John," and Sherlock simply turned the volume of the telly up, otherwise ignoring the man completely.

_No, not good at all_, John thought worriedly.

Xxx

If Sherlock had thought that the few people harassing him before that first newspaper article was released was bad, it was nothing compared to the amount of attention he received after the article's print.

When he and John had finally deemed it safe enough to venture back outside of 221b Baker Street, dozens of strangers seemed to now stop him every day, whether to tell him congratulations or to say that he was going to burn in hell for his unholy sins. A few cried. A few others threw balled up newspapers, Styrofoam cups of tea, muffins, and rude finger symbols— whatever they had in their hands at the moment that they recognized him on the street.

And Sherlock was becoming more than a little fed up with the whole ordeal.

A part of him was glad when John finally texted Lestrade back and lifted the case-ban he had so unsubtly imposed on Baker Street a couple of days after the two had first started venturing out of the flat again, and the detective inspector called not long after with a job. It was hardly interesting—barely even a two on the scale—but the need to be out of Baker Street, to be doing something, anything, to take his mind off of things was great. And the low rate of the case on Sherlock's scale meant that John felt okay leaving Sherlock to work on that one alone, while he went back to the surgery.

He dawdled with the case a bit, intent on spending as much time on work as he could. It may not have been like him to take so long with such an easy case, but he was coming to understand that these increasingly rare moments when he didn't have to think about his future, or his decision to take the Synathida, or the damned pregnancy, were coming fewer and farther between, and he was going to hold on to any semblance of his old life that he could.

But after he had solved the riddle and Lestrade had raced out of the precinct to go apprehend the perpetrator, Sherlock knew that his job at Scotland Yard was not done yet. There was one more thing that he needed to do, before he went home to Baker Street.

He left Lestrade's office, going out into the common area where all of the other officers had their desks set up. In one corner of the room, he found Donovan and Anderson, heads bent low over a piece of paper on the curly headed female's desk, going over the results of some test.

He made his way quietly over to them, noting that they were the only three in the room at this late hour, and he had to remind himself to hurry home; John would no doubt start to worry if Sherlock didn't text him soon. And the last thing he wanted was to be fussed over by John.

When he got closer to the couple, they looked up at the sound of his soft footsteps, and both wore identical grimaces upon seeing him.

They were definitely spending way too much time together, in Sherlock's opinion.

"Freak and Freak, Jr. are still here, I see," Donovan said acidly, by way of greeting.

Anderson smirked slightly at the jab and Sherlock ignored the remark, with amazing self-restraint.

But he had not come over here to get into a game of wits with them. He didn't have the time, energy or the patience to rub the lack of necessary equipment to win such a game in their faces. No, he had come over for one thing and one thing only…

"I know that you're the ones who have been leaking information on my…condition to the press," he responded instead, stopping in front of them and standing tall before them. His stance was a little less imposing because of the bulge sticking out from underneath his overcoat, but he didn't let them know that that bothered him. "I know we've never been friends, Donovan, but this isn't just me you're hurting now," he continued, staring the woman straight in the face.

For her part, she stood her ground rather well, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. He knew he couldn't intimidate her, not with his belly and not when she was used to hearing and seeing worse things in such a male-based profession. So he tried to play to her more feminine emotions. "John worries about what the stress will do to the baby," he told her plainly, "and I've already been labeled as high risk. You have no idea what consequences you can bring about with your little stunts."

Donovan stared at him for a long moment, and Anderson stood quietly beside her, both not seeming to be bothered by Sherlock's accusation at all. He knew that it was them, and they knew that he would have figured it out sooner rather than later, and there was no sense trying to hide the fact any more.

But the frizzy haired woman just shrugged, as if the whole situation didn't seem to bother her at all. "Well, I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said, and her tone was careless and flippant, the usual way she talked to him, "but that's really not my fault. You knew what would happen to your life if you succeeded in this…_circus act_." Her words took on a venomous tone and it was hard for Sherlock not to react as she spoke of his pregnancy in such a way. "Don't stand there and tell me that you didn't think the media would go crazy over their precious Sherlock Holmes becoming even more of a freak." She shook her head, and her frizzy hair moved about her face annoyingly. "No, you can't blame this on us, Sherlock. I don't believe we're doing anything wrong."

"Nothing wrong?" Sherlock repeated, incredulously. "You are selling information on an innocent baby—one that's not even born yet—just so that you can get a quick fifteen minutes of fame!" He visibly shook with the effort to restrain himself from reaching out and wrapping his large hands around the bitch's throat, from wrestling her gun from her holster and putting a bullet in Anderson's brain as he stood there beside her, silently sneering and letting her fight his battle as well as her own.

The two revolted him.

"Are you that jealous, Donovan, that you will stop at nothing to have your moment in the spotlight, where I have been for years because of my talents?" he asked, leaning in closer to her and dropping his voice to a deep whisper. "Giving the reporters a quick story, getting paid for your services like a cheap whore. That's all that you're doing—selling my dignity, and John's, and what little you have left to your own name." He pulled away from her and sneered at her. "You disgust me," he said venomously, his voice shaking with the restraint to not say more to her. "You are the worst kind of vermin on this earth and I'm sorry that my child will ever have to know people like you in his lifetime."

He turned to leave, satisfied and proud of himself that he had held on to most of his self-control. So very unlike him.

But before he could even take a step away from them, Anderson spoke up, only able to defend himself and Donovan when Sherlock had already turned his back.

Repulsive.

"Yes, well, I'm sure your kid will get used to dealing with those kinds of people," the man said in his weasely voice, and Sherlock stopped moving and stood still, turning back around slowly as Anderson continued, "what with his daddy being a psychotic, self-absorbed, drug addict. He'll have to get used to all sorts of disappointments in his life."

And before Sherlock could stop to think about what he was doing, before he could try to rationalize a better solution to the situation, before he could even worry about the consequences of his actions, he pulled a fist back and punched Anderson squarely in the face, his hand meeting the other man's nose with a very satisfying, very loud, cracking sound.

Xxx

He got the rebuking of a lifetime for that one. Both from John and from Lestrade. He didn't mind, though. He didn't even mind the soreness in his hand or the pinch in his back from the fast movement he had done when he had pulled back to punch Anderson in the face. In fact, they felt rather good when he thought of the broken nose he had given the other man, and the look on Donovan's face as she had bent down to help her boyfriend back up.

Anderson had wanted to press charges, of course, and John had complained that that was the last thing he and Sherlock needed, for the press to get wind of Sherlock's anger and aggression and turn the whole thing into another spectacle. Lestrade had had to be called in as a mediator, like a head-teacher trying to get two school children to play nicely with each other, and it was agreed that Sherlock would acquiesce to the charges brought up against him as long as no more information was leaked to the newspapers about Sherlock's condition, or what went on in his life. A rather anti-climactic end to the whole ordeal, but one that seemed to make John content, though he was still upset about the whole situation in the first place, and when everything was squared away, he imperiously told Sherlock that he was going out to the pub with Lestrade for a bit, and that Sherlock shouldn't expect him home any time soon.

Sherlock guessed he deserved that, but he still couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that was beginning to grow in the pit of his stomach, as he watched John and Lestrade walk off together, the detective inspector throwing a genial arm around the blonde doctor's shoulders and making John laugh at something that he said.

Xxx

Once inside the pub, John let out a harsh sigh as he slid into the chair at a back table, Lestrade falling into the one beside him.

It was getting harder and harder to keep Sherlock in line these days. Not that it was ever easy. But at least before the pregnancy, he could anticipate what Sherlock was going to do, he could kind-of-sort-of know what Sherlock was thinking. But lately, Sherlock had been doing nothing but sitting on the couch watching the telly and not speaking to him, or staring out the window of their living room and playing his violin, or writing down endless notes in his journals.

It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to go for days without speaking. In fact, that in and of itself was very common. But after spending years together, working as a team and living as lovers, John had gotten very good at reading Sherlock, much as the other man didn't like to think so.

But recently…

Recently, everything had been going to hell.

"Want a pint?" Lestrade asked him suddenly, and John jumped as he remembered that he wasn't alone at the table. Not unusual, because he felt that he was always alone lately.

"Something a bit stronger for tonight, I think," he answered the detective inspector with a tired smile, and when the waitress came to take their order, he got himself a double shot of whiskey.

"Does he take that much out of you, then?" Lestrade asked, after the waitress left their table.

John didn't say anything in response, but his silence was answer enough.

They didn't speak for a little while, remaining quiet as the waitress brought their drinks and they ordered a few more rounds, John deciding that it would be safer if he stuck to beer after his shot. He knew that Lestrade was waiting for him to say something, that he was wanting John to bring up the reason for the doctor's anger, but John couldn't seem to find the right words while he was sober.

So the two just continued to drink in silence while John thought about Sherlock and the pregnancy, and everything else that was going wrong in his life.

"It's just so ridiculous," he finally said out loud, when the alcohol had done enough of its job to loosen his tongue and lower his inhibitions a bit. "He doesn't even like kids. I don't know why on earth he thought that he should…"

He trailed off, taking another long draught from his mug and Lestrade stared at him from across the table, hard.

"Who knows why Sherlock does any of the things he does?" he said, giving a small, useless shrug of his shoulders.

"He told me once, when he first got pregnant, that it was the 'penultimate experiment'," John told Lestrade, his tongue slurring over the last two words, rolling his eyes as he noted how very Sherlockian they sounded. Pompous and full of themselves.

"Experiment?" Lestrade repeated, raising a hand to flag the waitress down again. "Is that what he did it for, then? As an experiment?"

John shrugged his shoulders, but they both knew the answer to Lestrade's question.

"He's a fucking loon," the detective inspector said with a disbelieving sigh. "That anyone would go through all this mess for a bloody _experiment_ or to prove a fucking _point_…I'm sorry that you have to put up with him John," he said suddenly, looking the blonde man in the eyes and trailing a hand closer to the edge of the table nervously. "I'm so sorry that he puts you through all of this, that he doesn't treat you better. I—"

And suddenly Lestrade's hand was on his own, as it lay motionlessly next to his now-empty mug. For a second John didn't comprehend the other man's touch through the haze that the alcohol was beginning to create, but it didn't take long before he realized that Lestrade's fingers were stroking softly over the tender flesh of the back of his palm, and he could only stare at their hands for a moment, at a loss as to what to do.

"—I think Sherlock doesn't understand what a wonderful guy you are, John. Anybody would be lucky to have you in their lives, and Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't even know what he has."

Lestrade's hand gripped his tighter now, and it may have just been the alcohol and the crowd in the pub but it seemed as if the space between the two men was closing, and they were getting closer to each other. "I would never think of hurting you like he has, John," Lestrade was saying softly, and John was surprised to find that he could smell Lestrade's aftershave, even through the smoke of the pub, and that he could feel the heat coming off of the other man, and suddenly there were lips pressing up against his own, and his mind went blank at the feel of the unfamiliar pressure against his mouth, so different from Sherlock's.

So different from Sherlock's.

His brain suddenly snapped back into focus and he realized with a jolt that Lestrade was kissing him, rather gentlemanly and chastely, but still—it was a kiss from someone who was not Sherlock.

He jerked back quickly, turning his head away from Lestrade, and he removed his hand from underneath the detective inspectors to bring it up to his mouth, trying to wrap his mind around the impression he still felt on it from the other man's lips.

"Greg…"

"I'm sorry, John," Lestrade said, sitting back in his chair and putting the distance between them back to the appropriate amount. And although he apologized, John got the distinct feeling that he wasn't sorry about his actions at all. "I just couldn't help it. I've had feelings for you for such a long time, and I've wanted to tell you, but…"

_But you've been with Sherlock._

Sherlock.

John sighed heavily, trying to push down a growing frustration at everything that seemed to be snow-balling in his life.

Couldn't things ever just be easy for him? Couldn't he just spend a few months without some new catastrophe, or life-changing event taking place? Was it really too much to ask for just a brief period of normality in his world?

"Greg, I can't deal with this right now," he complained, shaking his head to try to clear it. "Not with everything that's been going on with Sherlock, and the pregnancy, and the newspapers. It's just…"

"I know, John," Lestrade cut him off. "God, I'm such a prat, for throwing this at you, too. I just wanted you to know that I'm here for you, John, even if Sherlock isn't. And I'd be willing to give you everything that he isn't. Because you deserve it John. And you don't deserve what he's doing to you. I've always thought that."

John's eyes fell shut as Lestrade spoke to him, giving him reassurement, giving him attention, giving him encouragement, all the things he had not been getting from Sherlock recently.

"I…" He didn't know what to say, didn't know what to think. The alcohol and the crowd in the pub were giving everything a distorted sort of feeling, and he really just needed a bit of fresh air and a good night's sleep. "Just walk me home, you tosser," he finally said with a grin.

Lestrade grinned back at him, looking slightly relieved that John wasn't upset with him, and when the two stood up, the detective inspector had to help John steady himself, wrapping an arm around the blonde man's waist that he kept there even after John had found his balance.

They stumbled back to Baker Street drunkenly, tripping over each other and their own feet and giggling like school boys doing something naughty. When they got to the door of John's flat, Lestrade pushed the blonde man up against the closed door, and before he could lean in John had the presence of mind to push him away gently, shaking his head slowly. "Don't, Greg," he said, his eyes moving up to look at the building above him. Even though they were directly under the window of his and Sherlock's flat, it was still irrational for Lestrade to try something so scandalous right on their doorstep.

The drunken man seemed to comprehend this, if only slightly, and he let up trying to lean back into John. Instead, he lifted his hand from John's waist and cupped the blonde man's cheek with it, his thumb stroking softly over John's unshaven skin. "I like you, John. I may regret telling you this in the morning, but I don't care. I just want you to be happy. With him or with me."

John nodded his head in understanding, but didn't trust himself to speak.

"I hate seeing what he's putting you through," Lestrade continued, his warm hand still on John's face. His voice was the ghost of a whisper, but they stood so close to one another that John could hear every word he said. "If he wasn't bloody Sherlock Holmes, it wouldn't be this difficult for you."

At that, John couldn't help but smile. "If he wasn't bloody Sherlock Holmes," he said, his speech slurred, "I wouldn't be interested."

Xxx

When John finally managed to stumble his way up the stairs and into 221b, he was unsurprised to see Sherlock sitting in his dark gray leather chair, violin in hand and icy, strange colored eyes staring penetratingly at the door to their flat.

John stood in the doorway for a moment, like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but neither of them said anything. When John at last made a move towards their bedroom, Sherlock's voice finally rang out, deep and deadly and dark in the silence of the flat.

"You've been gone for a while. Have fun while you were out?" His large, pale hands plucked at the strings of his violin dangerously, pulling severe staccato notes from it in an ungentle manner.

John gulped slightly and knew he was in for it then. "Yeah, actually," he remarked defiantly. "Greg and I had a grand time of it." Let Sherlock think what he would of it; John was tired of walking on eggshells around the man.

" 'Greg'?" Sherlock repeated, his tone and his face deceivingly blank.

John swayed slightly on his feet and was suddenly aware that he was still very, very tipsy. "Sorry," he mocked, prolonging the word with a small, inebriated chuckle. "_Detective Inspector Lestrade_ to you, then."

"I know who 'Greg' is John," Sherlock suddenly snapped out, his thick, dark eyebrows coming together in a frown. "I just didn't realize you were on a first name basis with him."

"Well, I guess there's a lot of things you haven't bothered learning about me lately," the blonde man said stuffily, as the world swam in his vision and he suddenly had to reach a hand out to steady himself against the wall.

On the other side of the room, Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look. "Are we really going to do this right now, John?" he asked, tiredly. "You're drunk."

"So?" John retorted, angry. "Just 'cause I'm drunk doesn't mean I'm still not mad at you."

And now Sherlock stood in a decisive, yet perhaps not as swift as it once would have been, movement. "What on earth are you mad at me for?" he asked with a sigh, setting his violin down gently on the cushion of his chair and turning around to face John once again. "I apologized to Anderson for breaking his nose, even though I didn't think I needed to—I probably did him a favor and made it a sight straighter."

John groaned, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, the movement almost enough to knock him over even with his hand on the wall. "Not that, Sherlock," he cried out, exasperated. "God, everything doesn't revolve around you, you know!"

Sherlock stared at him quietly for a long moment, and John couldn't discern what the other man was thinking to save his life. "Then what?" Sherlock asked him. "What did I do this time? Hurt your feelings, ignored you, said something mean and snide? Tell me what it is so that we can just get this done and over with and I can go to bed."

Drunk as he was, John still winced at Sherlock's words. Dismissive and uninterested, as usual. That was the way Sherlock usually treated him; he'd thought that he would be used to it by now. "Yeah, Sherlock, ignoring me is as good a one as any," he said, frowning. "You've been doing that a lot lately. I feel like I hardly even know you anymore."

At this Sherlock threw his hands up in the air, irritated. "John, stop being ridiculous—I'm not ignoring you any more than I would on a regular basis."

If John had been sober, he might have caught that particular admission. But his mind was on other things, now.

"That's not true," he argued, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock from across the room. "You haven't talked to me for days; you won't even look at me. And I can't even remember the last time we…" his voice trailed off demurely, a hot blush springing to his cheeks.

For a second, Sherlock just stared at him, speechless, and John fidgeted underneath his intense gaze. And then he slowly started making his way across the living room, his movements slightly predatory and the look on his face indefinable.

"So you want me to pay attention to you, John?" he asked as he came closer to the blonde man, who stayed rooted in his spot against the wall, like an animal getting cornered. He didn't know what Sherlock was playing at, but the look on the brunette's face as he came ever closer to John told him that it was useless to fight it. "You want me to give you the same kind of attention you think you can get from Lestrade? Okay, I will, then."

John frowned, and his heart skipped a beat in fear. "What are you talking abo—"

But his question was cut off as Sherlock grabbed him, pushing him up against the wall of their living room and kissing him harshly.

Sherlock's mouth was hard on his, unyielding and demanding, tearing John's lips apart with the hot press of his tongue and taking him ferociously, tasting every inch of the inside of his mouth.

When Sherlock finally pulled away from his mouth to bite harshly at the skin of his neck, licking the marks gently after he made them, John tried to draw breath to speak, but the words didn't seem to want to come out right.

"W-what are…you—ungh…" his sentence trailed off into a low groan as Sherlock's hands grabbed at his cock through his trousers, squeezing and rubbing it roughly.

"I'm giving you some attention, John," Sherlock said darkly against his neck, biting down hard on the soft flesh and making John cry out. The hand that he wasn't using to play with John's cock was unbuttoning his shirt fervently, pushing it off of his shoulders when he had worked through all the small buttons. "I'm giving you the kind of attention that you can't get anywhere else. Even if you wanted to."

John tried to ask what exactly Sherlock meant by that, but when he felt Sherlock pull his zip down and reach inside his pants to cup at the bare flesh of his cock, he couldn't think straight any longer.

And then, suddenly, Sherlock's mouth was no longer pressing against his own, and Sherlock's body was no longer pressing against his body. He opened his eyes to see where the other man had gone, and his gaze travelled downwards, to see the tall brunette man crouched on his knees on the floor, Sherlock's large hands yanking his trousers and pants down to pool around his ankles, leaving his erect dick uncovered and exposed.

There was hardly any time to even enjoy the sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of him. The brunette man wasted no time at all taking John into his mouth, as far as he could, and John groaned loudly and felt his head fall back to hit against the wall he was leaning on, his hands coming up to tangle in Sherlock's long, dark hair.

"God, Sherlock. _Fuck!_"

His lover's mouth felt so amazing, cutting through the drunken haze that had settled over his mind and leaving him increasingly sober.

Sherlock worked over his cock feverishly, with a sort of vigor and desperation that turned John on more than the feel of the man's mouth on him. When he looked back down the length of his body and to Sherlock, he saw that the brunette had opened the fly of his own trousers, and he was rubbing himself off as he sucked on John's cock.

"Sherlock, you're—" his words trailed off once again because he couldn't think of anything that could describe the other man at that moment, looking so sexy as he touched himself and took John's dick so deep into his mouth that he gagged slightly on it.

And then, suddenly, the wonderful heat of Sherlock's mouth left, and all that remained was the incessant tug of Sherlock's hands on his hips, pulling the blonde man towards him and pushing him down to the floor, so that John was lying on the hard wood and Sherlock was maneuvering himself on top of him.

"Sherlock?" he asked, confused. This wasn't going to be comfortable, for either of them. They hadn't had sex on the floor in years, since they had first started fucking, when the excitement and the urgency that they had felt between them in the beginning of the relationship had begun to die out.

But the brunette man didn't say anything; he simply divested himself of all of his clothes quickly, and crawled over John's prone form carefully, working around his large belly, positioning himself above John's cock and lining up his entrance with a practiced hand.

"Sherlock, wait," John said, raising his hands to stop Sherlock's movements. The man hadn't even prepared himself. He didn't want Sherlock to hurt—

But his thought was cut off with a groan as Sherlock ignored his request and sank slowly down onto John's cock, impaling himself. John couldn't believe how good the tight heat felt. It seemed that even a little stretching was a world of difference. His breath came in ragged puffs and he could do nothing but lay there on the floor, naked, as Sherlock began a steady movement and fucked himself on John's cock.

The floor beneath him was hard and unforgiving, and the thought crossed his mind distractedly that he wasn't as young as he once had been, and he would probably end up paying for this romp tomorrow, but he couldn't even begin to think about telling Sherlock to stop. Not when the man felt so good wrapped around him, so tight and so hot and so wet.

He opened his eyes and looked down the length of his body, unable to control the loud moan that tore from his throat at the sight that met his eyes. Sherlock was moving desperately over him, rocking his hips with an abandon that John had rarely seen in him. His own cock was stiff and leaking precum in sticky globs that ran down the underside of his dick as it jutted out from his body, and his belly seemed so round from John's point of view, large and delicate, and John couldn't seem to take his eyes off of it.

"Touch me, John," he heard Sherlock's voice say above him, ragged and broken. "Make me cum."

John did as he was told and lifted a hand to squeeze Sherlock's cock, using the man's precum to lubricate his palm and make Sherlock glide effortlessly against his grasp. He hardly even had to move his hand; the snap of Sherlock's hips above him was enough to push the brunette man's hard cock into and out of the tight ring of his fingers.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, throwing his head back, and John closed his eyes against the sight above him, afraid that it would send him over the edge. He didn't want to finish so soon. He wanted to stay like this forever, inside of Sherlock's tight heat, fucking him endlessly.

But just then, Sherlock decided to come with a hoarse whimper, shooting sticky spurts of liquid out to cover John's chest, neck and even a bit of his cheek. At the feel of Sherlock's semen on his face, John lost all control of himself, and his hips bucked up to meet with Sherlock's downward thrusts, driving his cock deeper into the man on top of him and finally sending him over the edge.

As Sherlock's orgasm washed over him, he stayed sitting on top of John, his head coming forward to rest against John's, panting harshly. John could feel himself softening inside of Sherlock, but neither man moved, letting John's semen leak out of Sherlock's used hole, making a mess of both of them.

"God, Sherlock," he panted, completely sober now and intensely out of breath. "That was amazing."

On top of him, Sherlock sat up slightly, and brought a hand up to wipe at the streaks of semen that were on John's cheek. He had a peculiar look on his face, one that John couldn't quite place.

"I—I love you, John," he murmured softly, so low that John almost couldn't hear him. "I'm sorry if…"

John frowned at him, suddenly remembering their argument and dismissing it just as quickly. He reached out to bring Sherlock back down towards him, hugging him tightly and loving the feel of Sherlock's belly pressing against his own stomach between them.

"Forget it, Sherlock. You don't have to apologize." He ran his hands through Sherlock's hair and held on to the man tightly, wishing they could stay just as they were forever. "I'm sorry. And I…I love you, too."

X.X.X

A/N: Next chapter, 'Masterpiece Theater II'.


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